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NEW ENGLAND IDYL 


BY 


BELLE C. GREENE 


AUTHOR OF “A NEW ENGLAND CONSCIENCE” 



D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY 


Franklin and Hawlky Streets 



Copyright, 1S86, by 

D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY. 


Electrotyped 

By C. J. Peters and Son, Boston. 


£o fHg JFrienH, 

MRS. NELLIE M. HUSSEY, 

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 


THE AUTHOR. 






















































CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I. A New England Home 5 

II. Hester and Rosy 21 

III. A Family Conclave 34 

IV. Trouble. — Dr. Richard 54 

V. Jerry as a Hero 70 

VI. Brother and Sister 83 

VII. The Minister. — The Old Sugar-Bowl, 96 

VIII. Dressmaking. — High Art no 

IX. The Wood-Pile. — Love 132 

X. The City Boarders . 145 

XI. Sunday in. the Holler 159 

XII. An Afternoon Visit 174 

XIII. A Rich Lover. — Glamour 194 

XIV. The End 208 


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A NEW ENGLAND IDYL 


CHAPTER I. 

A NEW ENGLAND HOME. 

Far away, up among the green hills of 
one of our northern New England states, 
the little town of Sherburn sleeps in primi- 
tive beauty and stillness; and its simple 
inhabitants work out their peaceful lives, 
only hearing afar off, as it were, the din 
and confusion of the great world beyond. 
“ Sherburn Holler,” as it is called there- 
abouts, is a narrow strip of land, shut in 
on both sides by high hills. In the valley 
lie the meadows, with the little crooked 


5 


6 A New England Idyl . 

brooks winding through, and on the hills 
are the pasture lands, where feed the 
flocks. There, also, the timber grows; 
and when a Sherburn man would build 
him a house, he digs a trench down the 
mountain side, fells the big pines, and 
slides them to the plains below, where 
the}^ are taken to mill to be sawed into 
boards. 

There are many noisy cataracts among 
the mountains, which come tumbling 
down from rocky heights, and, in spring- 
time especially, they seem to fill the 
whole world with their roar. It is a sol- 
emn place — solemn in sight and sound — 
and nature and nature’s God seem to reign 
over all in silent majesty. 

Nestling warmly among the meadows 
is the little farm known to Sherburn folks 
as the “ Widder Ruggles farm.” The 


A New England Home . 7 

widow is dead, but the family still occupy 
the place, and it retains the old name. 

The house is poor, and small, and old, 
but there is a comfortable, home-like look 
about it that recommends it at once to the 
stranger. 

The family consists of five persons: 
Aunt Nancy, a much loved relative on 
the mother’s side ; Hester, the eldest 
daughter; Rosanna — or Rosy, as she is 
more commonly called; and two boys, 
John and Jerry. 

Jerry, the youngest, a bright, active little 
fellow of eight years, may be seen now, 
as our story opens, driving the cows down 
the steep side-hill back of the house. He 
whistles a merry tune as he goes running 
and leaping along, or stops perhaps to shy 
a stone at a venturesome squirrel. A 
sturdy fellow is he, and his bare brown 


8 A New England Idyl . 

feet and legs are seemingly proof against 
the thistles and stubble in the way. 

Arrived at the barnyard, he hastily let 
down the bars, turned in the cows, and 
ran into the house. 

“Now, Jerry,” protested a kind old 
voice, as the boy entered, “ do go and wipe 
your feet! I’ve just got this floor mopped, 
and I wish you would?i > t come trackin’ it 
all over, the fust thing! ” 

“Oh, Aunt Nancy! I didn’t mean to — 
sure pop!” cried Jerry, retreating pell-mell 
to the shed door, where he made a great 
show of scraping and cleaning his feet on 
the mat. “Ain’t supper most ready? I’m 
hungry as a bear! Where’s Hester?” 

“ I’m here,” said a sweet voice from an 
inner room. When Jerry opened the door 
Hester was standing by the one small 
window, looping back the clean white 


A New England Home . 9 

curtains, which she had just finished put- 
ting up. 

Jerry looked round the room with de- 
light. “Oh, Hester! ain’t it nice?” he 
said. “ I guess Rosy ’ll like it, don’t you ? ” 

“Yes, dear, I think she will,” answered 
his sister with a satisfied smile, which 
Aunt Nancy, entering at that moment, 
seemed to reflect on her own good-natured 
face. 

“ I must sa} T , Hester,” with her head on 
one side, and shutting up one eye, the 
better to get the effect, “ I must say them 
curt’ins is complete! And to think that 
they ain’t nothin’ in the world but cotton 
cloth with a strip o’ turkey red for trim- 
min’, nuther! It does beat all! But,” she 
added, “ I miss them picters of the presi- 
dents ; / shouldn’t ’a’ took ’em down. 
They looked so kinder orderly , somehow, 


io A New England Idyl. 

all hangin’ in a row. Ten of ’em, wa’n’t 
there ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Jerry, “ and the ‘ Death-bed 
of Washington’ made eleven. Rosy ’ll 
be glad they’re gone. . She always hated 
’em; said they gave her the nightmare.” 

“ They were not very cheerful pictures, 
certainly,” said Hester. “ Now this pretty 
landscape is only a colored print, and 
those two groups of figures I cut out of a 
magazine; but they are pleasant to look 
at, and good of their kind, at least.” 

“ Everybody to his taste. I s’pose they 
’re well enough,” allowed Aunt Nancy. 
“ But come, ain’t it ’bout time ter set the 
table ? The stage ’ll be along pretty soon.” 

Hester gave one good look at the room 
before going out. There were braided 
mats upon the floor; a comfortably cush- 
ioned rocking-chair stood before the 


A New England Home. n 

hearth; there was a little table with a few 
books on it, and a bright worsted lamp- 
mat. A great white bed stood imposingly 
in one corner, and the new curtains added 
a bright, cheerful look to the whole. 

“Yes, Rosy will like it,” murmured 
Hester, giving the bed a parting pat. 
Then she went out and shut the door. 

Jerry had suddenly disappeared, but be- 
fore they had finished laying the supper- 
table he came rushing in, with his hands 
full of golden-rod and asters. 

“ Don’t you know how Rosy likes 
these ? ” he cried, eagerly. “ She always 
used to have ’em in the house as long as 
they lasted. Put ’em in the blue vase, 
won’t you ? ” 

“Why, yes, indeed; how nice!” said 
Hester. “ I am so glad you thought of 
them, Jerry.” Then they filled the big 


12 A New England Idyl . 

blue glass vase and set it on the mantel, 
and felt as if all was complete. 

The supper-table was laid with extra 
care that night. As Aunt Nancy re- 
marked, “ If the governor had been corn- 
in’ ter tea, they could’nt ’a’ made a bigger 
spread.” All the family treasures in the 
way of china were brought out. The 
remains of the “ sprig-leaved ” tea-set, 
handed down for three generations, the 
George Washington sugar-bowl — a mar- 
vel of quaint beauty — and, last and most 
conspicuous of all, was the silver spoon- 
holder, sent all the way from Boston by the 
summer boarder. “ And,” to quote Aunt 
Nancy, “ the best on’t was, it wa’n’t all 
show and dishes, nuther, like some tables 
she had seen ! There was plenty o’ vittles, 
and them that was good and hearty tew.” 
A beautiful great blue platter containing 


13 


A New England Home . 

the “ cold b’iled dish ” occupied the centre 
of the table, its deep coloring brought out 
in charming contrast with the gold of the 
carrots, the bright red of the beets, and 
the creamy white of the parsnips and tur- 
nips. Then, there was flour bread, and 
butter, and “plum sass,” all of Aunt Nan- 
cy’s best make, “ and good enough for 
anybody, if I did make ’em!” so she 
said, as she stood by the table, taking a 
final survey. 

Just then there came a loud “ hooray! ” 
from Jerry, who had been stationed at the 
window to watch for the stage. “ Here 
they come!” he shouted, making a pre- 
cipitous dive for the door, followed more 
decorously by Aunt Nancy and Hester, as 
the old stage came lumbering slowly up 
the road, and finally stopped in front of 
the house. 


14 A New England Idyl . 

A young man, perhaps sixteen years 
of age, sprang out, and assisted a girl, a 
year or two older, to alight. She flew to 
Hester’s arms, turning for one instant to 
give Aunt Nancy and little Jerry a hasty 
hug and kiss. 

“ Oh, Hetty, Hetty! I am so glad to see 
you — so glad!” She kissed her again 
and again, and hung upon her, repeating, 
“ I am so glad, so glad!” Looking into 
her lovely, radiant face, no one could for 
a moment doubt her happiness. They led 
her into the house, the young man, with 
Jerry clinging to his hand, following. 
This young man was brother John, “ the 
head of the famity,” as his sisters some- 
times teasingly called him; and, young as 
he was, that dignity did seem to sit already 
upon his grave and handsome face. 

Meanwhile, Aunt Nancy and Hester 


A New Engl arid Home . 15 

were helping Rosy to take off her things 
as expeditiously as her spasmodic hug- 
gings and kissings would allow. 

“There, there, Rosy! you dew act like 
a crazy creatur’,” said Aunt Nancy, mildly 
disapproving. “ Do carm down now, and 
come to supper; it’s all ready and waitin’.” 

“ I will, I will, you dear old ‘ Mamsey ! ’ ” 
said Rosy, giving her the old familiar pet 
name she had used from a child, “and, for 
my part, I am hungry as a bear! ” 

But first she ran to the little looking- 
glass, and smoothed her golden hair and 
her plumage generally, in the charming 
way that young girls have. 

Jerry watched her movements in open- 
mouthed admiration, and, going up to her, 
timidly took hold of her dress. 

“ Rosy,” he whispered, “ I want to kiss 
you — you are so awful 'pretty 1 ” 


1 6 A New England Idyl. 

They all laughed, and Rosy caught him 
up and smothered him with kisses. 

“You darling little rogue!” she cried, 
“ you shall think your sister’s pretty if you 
want to. You shall be my best beau!” 
And, diving down into her pocket, she 
produced a paper of candy and a shining 
jack-knife, the reception of which ren- 
dered Jerry speechless for some time. 

That was a happy supper. But Rosy 
often forgot to eat, in feasting her eyes on 
the dear ones about her, and they could 
not look their fill into the happy face of 
their darling, with them again at last. 

“You seem to have got up from your 
fever pretty well,” remarked Aunt Nancy, 
considering her niece’s blooming face 
attentively. 

“Oh, yes; I grew strong right away 
after I got John’s letter saying he was 


A New England Home . 17 

coming to fetch me home. But oh, I was 
sick, and so miserable! I can’t tell you” 
— with a gesture of disgust — “ how I 
hated the mill and the city!” 

“ But you wa’n’t sick at fust — that is, 
your health was good enough for a 
while?” 

“ Yes, for a few weeks; but I soon be- 
gan to feel tired all the time. I was never 
rested, not even in the morning.” 

“ Pity you didn’t think to steep some 
chamomile blows, and take ’em,” said 
Aunt Nancy, practically. “ Nothin’ like 
chamomile for quietin’ the narves.” 

Rosy smiled faintly. “ Everything was 
so horrible! ” she continued. “ The noise 
of the mill — the eternal clash, clash of 
the looms, nearly drove me wild! and the 
smell of the oil and the greasy machinery 
sickened and stifled me — even the air in 


1 8 A New England Idyl . 

the streets. Oh, how I longed for a breath 
from off these hills! ” 

“ Poor child! you was homesick, wa’ti’t 
ye ? ” remarked Aunt Nancy, sympatheti- 
cally, helping her to more of the “ plum 
sass.” 

Hester clasped Rosy’s hand under the 
table for an instant, and John’s grave face 
grew graver. 

“As I said, I did not sleep well, and 
often woke before light. To amuse my- 
self, I would try to imagine I was at home 
— that I could hear the morning concert 
of the birds, and all the sounds I loved so 
well. I would try to imagine that you, 
Hester, were beside me in our own white 
bed, and perhaps for one moment I would 
be almost happy. Then that hateful bell 
would clang, clang, and I would have to 
drag myself out to another day’s misery! ” 


A New England Home . 19 

“You was dretful homesick, sure 
enough,” repeated Aunt Nancy, wiping 
her eyes. 

“Homesick?” said Rosy, with a little 
shudder. “ I should think I was! All the 
money in the world would not have kept 
me there a whole year, if it hadn’t been 
for helping the family. But now I shall 
be just about as miserable, if I can’t get 
something to do, right away. I must earn 
money, somehow,” and a sudden shadow 
settled down upon her bright face. 

“ Let us not think about anything un- 
pleasant to-night, dear,” said Hester. 
“ Things will all come right.” 

“/ propose to support this family my- 
self in future,” said John, pompously. 
“Give yourselves no uneasiness, girls. 
Think of the big job of chopping I have 
got for the winter! ” 


20 A New England Idyl. 

“ But I thought you were going to school 
— how about the lessons and the reading?” 
asked Rosy. 

“ Oh, time enough for them in the long 
evenings,” said John, as he rose and lit his 
lantern to go to the barn. 

“ Dear old John,” said Rosy, regretful- 
ly; “ he ought to have a better chance.” 


CHAPTER II. 

HESTER AND ROSY. 

In their own room, that night, the two 
sisters had a good long chat after the 
manner of girls. But first, Rosy must 
express her delight at being once more 
in the dear old room. 

She praised the new curtains and pic- 
tures, went into raptures over Jerry’s 
flowers, handled the books and familiar 
ornaments scattered about, with loving 
recognition, and finally stood still before 
the great white bed and laughed. 

“An imposing structure, is it not?” 
she said, turning to Hester. “ I haven’t 
seen a feather bed since I went awa}'. 


21 


22 A New Engl cm d Idyl . 

I wonder if I have forgotten what it is 
like,” and with one hand on the foot- 
board, she gave a light spring and 
landed in the middle of the bed, the 
-feathers rising in downy billows about 
her. Finding herself very comfortable, 
she concluded to sit there and take 
down her hair for the night, which she 
proceeded to do. 

Rosy’s hair was something wonderful ; 
golden, wavy, and abundant, and, as she 
sat there on the great white bed, with 
its golden sheen about her, she seemed 
to Hester like a veritable goddess of 
the sun, on a throne of snow. 

“ Hester,” said Rosy at length, taking 
a critical survey of the room, “ isn’t it 
odd that though we are so poor, we 
hardly realize it here? I mean in the 
matter of furnishing, for instance. In 


2 3 


Hester and Rosy . 

the country, even homely, common 
things are enjoyable, and seem nice 
enough. Is it because nobody has any- 
thing very elegant? I saw enough of 
the way rich people live in the city, to 
make me feel sure that I should be 
wretched to live there, unless I were 
rich. The contrast between the rich 
and poor is so cruel! It is the worst 
as regards dress. Nothing could be 
more pitiful than to see the attempts 
the poor make to imitate the rich in 
their dress.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. But I’m sure, 
Rosy, you don’t need to care much for 
dress; you do not need it,” said Hester, 
with fond pride in her sister’s beauty. 

“Oh, but I did care a great deal! I 
used to see our agent’s daughter. She 
had the same hair and complexion as 


24 A New England Idyl. 

ni} r own, though she was not pretty at 
all — no, not even pretty ” — with keen 
satisfaction, “ but she wore such beauti- 
ful, becoming dresses! Violet, a shade 
of violet or heliotrope, she wore oftenest, 
in satin or velvet; and I used to wish 
I could see itself in those dresses. 
I knew it was foolish, but I couldn’t 
help it. And she often rode past our 
boarding-house in a grand carriage 
dressed so, like a queen! and when I 
thought of the difference in our lives, 
it made me wretched! why should she 
fare so much better than I ? I tell you 
it don’t seem right,” said Rosy, bitterly 7 ’. 
“ I was not utterly selfish either,” she 
added, “ I felt for all the poor girls. I 
pitied them, as I did myself. I tell you 
poverty in the city is a terrible thing, 
especially to those who are educated 


Hester and Rosy . 


2 5 


above their station. Of course igno- 

O 

ranee and coarseness go alon or more 

o o 

comfortably with poverty. I wish, some- 
times, that I had no ambition; that we 
had not, as a family. We should be 
more content. I wish we had not 
studied and read more than our neigh- 
bors, and, above all, that we had never 
had those rich city boarders, to come 
here and fill our heads full of longings 
to be and do like them!” 

Hester’s gentle heart was greatly 
pained to find Rosy had come back so 
different from the light-hearted girl she 
went away. 

“ I suspect,” she said gently, “ that if 
we could look into the hearts and lives 
of these people you envy, we should 
find that they are no happier than we 
ourselves. Happiness is more equally 


2 6 A New England Idyl . 

distributed than we think. Certainly, 
all the rich people we know have 
their troubles — there is Miss Arbuckle, 
now.” 

“Yes; but I think she is awfully silly. 
If I had the silk dresses and jewels 
and things she has, I don’t believe all 
the men in the world could make my 
heart ache,” said Rosy, with a toss of 
her head. 

“ That’s because you never really 
cared about anybody, perhaps ; when 
you do, it will be different.” 

“How is Will Hanson?” asked Rosy, 
abruptly. 

Hester smiled, and, turning, looked at 
her sister, thoughtfully. 

“ He is well,” she said. “ Rosy, I 
used to think you liked Will.” 

“ I do like him,” said Rosy, frankly, 


Hester and Rosy . 27 

“but I will never marry him — not if he 
hangs round till he is gray ! ” 

“No? — why not, dear?” 

“ Because,” answered Rosy, “ I am 
determined to be rich before I die. If 
I were a man I would go to work and 
accomplish it for myself ; but as I am a 
woman, I must marry a rich man, I 
suppose,” with a little harsh laugh. 

“ Rich men are by no means plenty, 
and they are not always good or agree- 
able either,” said Hester. 

“I don’t care; I’d marry a toad if he 
was rich ! ” said Rosy, emphatically. 
“ But, then,” she continued, laughing, 
and looking a little ashamed, “ I don’t 
need to be quite so much in earnest. 
I am not old enough to get married yet 
a while, even if I had the chance. But I 
suppose I can have my opinions about it.” 


28 A New England Idyl. 

“ I hope you will change them before 
that time comes,” said Hester, gravely. 

“ Oh, I shall not. We must have 
one worldly, mercenary person in this 
family. 

“ It is not of myself alone I think, 
selfish as I am!” she added, passionately. 
“It is of you , chiefly! Dearest, dearest 
Hett}', do you suppose I am blind — that 
I do not see how thin and pale and full 
of care you are! How you carry us all 
upon your dear, unselfish heart ; and 
how you will continue to carry us until 
} r ou die, unless some one relieves you 
of the burden! 

“Oh, darling, I see — I know — and 
I love you for it; but I say it shall not 
be — for long!” She threw herself into 
her sister’s arms and sobbed in a passion 
of tears. 


Hester and Rosy . 29 

Hester soothed her as she would a 
child. 

“ Nothing is such a burden as a dis- 
contented, over-ambitious spirit,” she 
said to her, presently. “Try to be con- 
tented — try to be happy for my sake, 
dear. If we do our best, all will come 
right for us in time.” 

Rosy laughed hysterically. “You have 
hung your taith upon that hook for a 
long time,” she said. “ It may be 
stronger than I think; it has held out 
well any way.” 

Hester smiled gently. “It has — it 
will,” she said. “Try it, Rosy.” 

“ I wish I could,” said Rosy. “ I 
could do almost anything for you. One 
thing I will not do. I will not bother 
you any more with my wicked nonsense 
— if I can help it! Tell me about your- 


30 A New England Idyl . 

self now; tell me everything. How is 
Dr. Richard Bemis? I suppose you 
and he go plodding on the same as ever; 
no quarrels, no excitement — everything 
dignified and sensible, as a courtship 
should be?” 

“ Ours is hardly a courtship; it is 
more a — waiting ,” said Hester, smiling 
softly. 

“ Let’s see, it’s more than five years 
that you have been engaged, isn’t it?” 

“ Five years last spring,” answered 
Hester. As she spoke the years rolled 
back, and she seemed again to hear the 
whispered charge of her dying mother, 
“ Take care of the children — be a 
mother to the little ones.” 

She had promised never to leave 
them while they needed her care. 
Would a time ever come when she 


Hester and Rosy . 31 

would not be needed in the old home? 
And then she remembered, with a thrill 
of happiness, the reply that Richard 
Bemis had made to her that night when 
she offered to release him, “ Hester, you 
are the only woman in the world for 
me, and I must wait for you, till the 
end of time, if need be.” 

“ Hetty,” broke in Rosy, as if musing 
too, “ I have often wondered what it 
must be like, to care for one as you do 
for Rich — as you do for each other. 
I don’t see how you can live apart! 
What a shame you can’t be married! 
Yes,” the old, troubled look coming 
back again, and forgetting her resold 
tion, “yes, I must really marry a rich 
man, and take this family off your 
hands. There is no other way. You 
shall not sacrifice your whole life to us! ” 


32 A New England Idyl . 

“Oh, hush, Rosy! I do not feel that 
I am sacrificing my life. Nothing could 
make me feel so, except to know that 
after all my love and care one of my 
children had acted unworthily. For 
instance,” she added, “ if you, dear, 
should marry that rich man you tell 
about, knowing that your heart was 
already given to another. Then, indeed, 
I should feel that so far as you were 
concerned, my poor life had been a 
failure.” She laid her hand on her 
pretty sister’s arm, and looked solemnly 
into her eyes. 

Rosy clasped her in a passionate 
embrace. “ Oh, Hetty, Hetty!” she 
cried, “I will try to be good and noble 
like you — I will indeed! I don’t won- 
der Richard loves you so — how could 
he help it! There is nobody, nobody 


Hester and Rosy . 33 

like you in all the world! If I never 
have anything more, I ought to be 
satisfied just to have such a sister! and 
I should be, if I were not the wickedest, 
most ungrateful girl in the world!” 

“ There, there, dear,” said Hester, 
soothingly, “you are weak and nervous 
yet, and must be very tired. I ought 
not to have let you talk so long. We 
shall have you sick again. You must 
go to bed directly, and I will tuck you 
in, as I used to do when you were a 
little girl.” 

So she petted and soothed her, till 
she slept; and when, a little later, the 
tender moon looked in upon them — as 
a mother watchful of her children — she 
found them both sleeping peacefully in 
the great white bed. 


CHAPTER III. 

A FAMILY CONCLAVE. 

It was a few clays after Rosy’s arrival 
home, and she and Hester and Aunt 
Nancy still lingered at the dinner-table. 
Suddenly Rosy leaned back in her chair 
and, clearing her throat, said, with a 
formal, serio-comic air, “ Ladies, let us 
have a little practical talk. With your 
permission, I will begin.” 

Their smiling silence giving assent, 
she proceeded: — 

“ I suppose,” she said, “ that we are 
awfully poor — poorer than ever, in fact; 
is it not so? I have been making obser- 
vations, and I find that we have not 


34 


A Family Conclave . 35 

yet got another horse in place of old 
Dolly, deceased. I hear a solitary black 
pig squealing alone out there in the 
pen, and the old rooster’s family is re- 
duced to the two white Leghorns and 
one black Spanish. I’ve no fault to 
find with old Dick, however, for he 
seems determined to do his part towards 
sustaining the honor of the family, and 
struts round as grand and crows as 
loud as ever. As nearly as I can ascer- 
tain, neither of you has had a new 
article of clothing since I left home, a 
year ago. (Thank fortune I have got 
a few things to share with you.) And, 
with all due respect to your skill in 
cooking, — for I do believe you would 
manage to get up something nice to 
eat out of nothing, — I observe that 
with the exception of the grand spread 


36 A New E 71 gland Idyl . 

on the night of my arrival, the table 
has not been burdened, that is, it has 
not gi'oaned with dainties, has it? 

“ In short, flour is scarce, sugar and 
tea are luxuries, and every meal seems 
to be furnished by a special providence, 
not to say a miracle. For instance, I 
can’t imagine what this soup is made 
of, as I haven’t seen any fresh meat 
since I came home,” with a comical 
look of inquiry. 

“La ! Rosy, how you dew run on!” 
laughed Aunt Nancy. “ We’ve been 
savin’ up the bone that this ’ere soup 
was made on, for some time. And 
’twa’n’t nothin’ but a bone, nuther. I 
know I said ter Hester, says I, 4 It don’t 
seem as if there’s a mite o’ goodness 
tew it!’ but ye see, come ter put in a 
little onion and pertater and one thing 


A Family Conclave . 37 

V nuther, it’s a pretty good soup, after 
all!” 

“ It is wonderful how little a family 
can live on,” said Hester, “ though it 
does require more management and 
thought than it would to feed a well 
provisioned army, I dare say.” 

“ How about the wood?” continued 
Rosy, still bent on investigation. “ The 
winter is coming on, and I perceive 
that the wood-pile is low.” 

“ Oh, John and Jerry attend to that. 
There will be plenty of time before 
John begins his winter’s job. He’s been 
fixing up about the place, but he is 
ready now for the wood, I believe. 
We have 'wood enough ; that is one 
great cause for thankfulness. We shall 
not freeze, whatever else we suffer.” 

“ Thank God for that,” said Aunt 


38 A New England Idyl. 

Nancy, devoutly. “ With my rheumatiz, 
it would be dretful to be short on’t 
for wood ! ” 

“John has worked very hard all the 
summer and fall,” said Hester. “ I wish 
he could have more time for rest and 
study now ; but he will have his even- 
ings, as he says.” 

“How smart John is!” remarked 
Rosy, proudly. 

Hester sighed. “Yes, if he had advan- 
tages he would accomplish a great deal, 
I am sure,” she said. 

“ Girls, you needn’t worry nothin’ at 
all about that boy,” said Aunt Nancy, 
sententiously. “ If it’s in him ter be 
somebody, and an honor to the Ruggles 
family — why, he will be, that’s all! In 
my ’pinion, 7 /s in him, and he zvorks 
like forty yoke o’ steers! It does beat 


A Family Conclave . 39 

all! Now what more does lie need? 
’Tain’t the easy road that leads to glory, 
you know, and as long as he’s well and 
hearty, it won’t hurt him to work. And, 
massy sakes, you don’t hear him grumble 
— he likes it! ” 

“ No, indeed; he never complains,” 
assented Hester, warmly. “ But, to 
change the subject — I want to say, Rosy, 
that you must not forget that while in 
some things we appear to be growing 
poorer, we are in reality better off than 
we have been for years. Thanks to 
you and John and the summer boarders, 
chiefly, the last hundred dollars of the 
mortgage on the farm is paid off, and 
now it is ours . So, with good manage- 
ment another year, we will be fairty 
started in the right direction. 

“ John’s wages are our main stay for 


40 A New England Idyl . 

the winter, of course, but I shall do 
all the tailoring I can get, and you will 
help me, and, by living carefully, we 
shall get comfortably through. Next 
summer Miss Arbuckle comes again, 
you know, and we hope to get big 
crops from the farm. I am sure the 
future looks quite bright.” 

“ Oh, I suppose so,” said Rosy, a little 
sarcastically, “ but, with all our pros- 
pects, I should say it might be some 
little time before we roll in wealth.” 

“ Who wants ter ‘ roll in wealth ,’ 
Rosy Ruggles — you ungrateful girl! 
Won’t nothin’ dew for you, but ter 
dress in silks and satings and ride in 
your kerridge! For my part, all I’d 
ever think of askin’ is ter git able 
ter ’ford a doctor to my rheumatiz, and 
a clean, starched white apron to put on 


A Family Conclave . 41 

of an afternoon. That’s all I’d ask for 
myself; and I know I’m an onreason- 
able creatur’, and orter be contented 
with what I’ve got. So had you.” 

Aunt Nancy’s simple words touched 
Rosy’s heart. She ran round the table to 
her, and laid her cheek against the dear 
old face, as she used to do when a child. 

“You dear, blessed Mamsey,” said she, 
tremulously, “ you shall have all you long 
for, and more too, some time, as sure as 
my name is Rosy Ruggles! ” 

Aunt Nancy was more than appeased. 
“ I didn’t mean ter be hard on ye, dear,” 
she said, “ but you are so full of your 
cricks and cranks,” looking at her as if 
the same appeared anything but faults at 
that moment. She rose and began clat- 
tering among the dishes; and the conver- 
sation — Rosy’s “ practical talk ” — was 


42 A New England Idyl . 

virtually ended. Suddenly the old lady 
stops before the window. 

“ Rosy,” says she, “ I dew declare, I 
believe there’s Will Hanson cornin’ up the 
road! I thought strange he hadn’t been 
round ’fore now; but like enough he didn’t 
hear you’d got home.” 

“ I can’t see what my coming is to his 
coming,” said Rosy, confusedly, and then 
laughed. 

When the young man referred to opened 
the door and entered without knocking, 
according to custom among neighbors in 

o o o 

“Sherburn Holler,” she was vexed to find 
her cheeks burning, and her heart beating 
like a trip-hammer. 

“ How do you do, Aunt Nancy? How 
do you do, Rosy?” he said, with a glad 
ring in his voice, not to be mistaken. He 
had a frank, handsome face, and that per- 


A Family Conclave . 43 

sonal, magnetic charm that comes from a 
noble nature and perfect health and spirits. 

“ I didn’t know you were at home till 
last night, Ros}’,” he remarked as he shook 
hands with her. 

“ I reckoned whuther no that wa’n’t the 
reason } T ou hadn’t been round,” said Aunt 
Nancy. 

Rosy bit her lip with vexation. 

“ Are you quite strong? ” Will hastened 
to ask. “ You had a fever, they said.” 

“ Oh, yes; I am well enough now — 
thank you.” 

“ I suppose,” he continued, lightly, “ that 
you have come home so much in love 
with the city and city ways that it will 
seem duller than ever here in the Hol- 
ler?” 

“ La sakes! she was glad enough to git 
home — hates the city and everything 


44 ^4 New England Idyl . 

about it — don’t ye, Rosy?” chuckled Aunt 
Nancy. 

“ Of course, I didn’t enjoy myself very 
much while I was sick,” answered Rosy, 
evasively. 

“ I should think not,” said Will, sympa- 
thetically. “ See here, Rosy, I can’t be 
spared long, this morning, but I thought 
perhaps you’d like to go over to the falls. 
Have you seen them since you came 
home?” 

Rosy sprang up with alacrity. “ No, I 
haven’t,” she said. “ I should so like to 
go.” She ran to get her hat, and they 
were soon on the way. 

They walked along for some distance 
without speaking, Rosy breaking off long 
stalks of golden-rod, Will watching her 
contentedly. “ Rosy,” said he, at length, 
“ I have kept a bunch of golden-rod in 


A Family Conclave . 45 

my room ever since it came; queer, isn’t 
it, for a big fellow like me to think so 
much of a flower?” He looked at her 
furtively, and gave a little embarrassed 
laugh. 

“Well, I don’t know; I like it my- 
self,” she said, indifferently. 

“ Oh, Rosy, you know I like it be- 
cause you do ! ” he exclaimed, reproach- 
fully. He would have seized her hand, 
golden-rod and all, but she drew away. 

“ Here we are at the falls, Will,” she 
said, hastily, “and oh, nothing is changed! 
There is the old rock, our playhouse, 
covered with moss, as beautiful as ever. 
And, why ! they didn’t cut down the big 
birch, after all! How is that?” Her 
face beamed with delighted surprise. 

Will laughed softly. “ The fact is,” 
said he, “ I bought that birch — that is, 


4 6 A New England Idyl. 

I bought it for you ; it is yours now. 
I gave them another that answered their 
purpose just as well.” 

“ Oh, how nice of you to think of 
that ! ” said Rosy, warmly. 

The falls were now directly before 
them. The waters came tumbling down 
over the rocks with a tremendous noise, 
but finally stretched lazily out into a 
quiet little brook that carried an old 
mill. 

“ The last time I was here, all this 
roaring sounded awfully doleful and 
lonesome; but to-day it seems quite a 
jolly uproar,” said Will, leaping over 
the rocks. “ Come, let’s climb to the 
devil’s peak ! Give me your hand.” 

Rosy was as sure-footed as a }’oung 
antelope, and they were soon perched 
high up on a cliff jutting over the waters. 


A Family Conclave . 47 

They sat and talked as they used 
when children together. Reaching out 
for the few flowers that grew near them, 
or an occasional pretty autumn leaf, 
they soon gathered quite a nosegay. 
The sun began to sink in the west, and 
they spoke of returning home. 

“ Before we go, I should think 
you might say you are glad to see a 
fellow,” said Will, in an aggrieved tone. 
“You can’t help seeing how / feel, 
but you , Rosy — I don’t know; you 
seem changed, somehow,” studying her 
lovely face wistfully. “Yes, you are 
changed.” 

“I am a year older, and I wear my 
hair, differently,” she said, uneasily, tr} T - 
ing to laugh. 

“ Don’t tell me that you have found 
somebody you like better than you do 


I 


48 A New England Idyl. 

me ; I could not bear it ! ” cried Will, 
impulsively. 

“ Oh, no ; I like everybody just the 
same,” she said, ambiguously, “ but ” — 
hesitatingly — “ perhaps I have changed 
my ideas in some respects.” 

“ How ? What do you mean — tell 
me!” 

“Well,” said Rosy, with an effort, 
“ it is hard to think of such things here ” 
— looking round upon the solemn hills, 
then down upon the peaceful meadows. 
“ It seems to me, sitting here, as if life 
were only a grand, sweet thing, needing 
nothing but nature and beauty and,” 
shyly, “ perhaps love, to make it com- 
plete. But in the city, where I have 
been — and even at home, sometimes, 
I feel I need more ; more than Sher- 
burn or any one in it can give. There ! 


A Family Conclave . 49 

Oh, Will, I know you will despise me, 
but I hate poverty , and I do long to be 
rich l ” 

He looked at her attentively and 
gravely. “/ am well off,” he said, with 
simple dignity. “You should never 
know want.” 

“ Oh, I know,” she said, with a shrug 
of disdain, “ you are what Holler folks 
call ‘forehanded'* ; but to the wealth 
one sees in the city, it is poverty.” 

“Yes, everything is comparative in 
this world,” he answered. “ But the 
city ! I don’t think I could live there, 
not if they should give me the whole 
of it. I hate the noise and confusion 
of the streets — the pushing and crowd- 
ing after place, and the hurry and 
straining after money ! As if that were 
all ! 


50 A New E 71 gland Idyl . 

“ When I go over the mountain to 
trade, I am always glad to get back 
here again, where there is room — 
where I can breathe the pure air from off 
these hills ! ” He stretched his hands 
forth to the mountains, and turned to 
Rosy with a look whose eloquent 
moved her deeply. 

“ I love the hills, too,” she said, 
choking back a sob. “ But,” she added, 
defiantly, “ hills and waterfalls, and 
even the pure air of heaven, can’t feed 
us, nor buy rich clothes and jewels, and 
carriages to ride in ! ” 

“ Rich clothes and jewels, and car- 
riages to ride in!” repeated Will, me- 
chanically, feeling a sudden blank despair 
settling down upon him. 

They sat in silence, until, finally, Will 
rose and shook himself, as if to rouse 


A Family Conclave . 51 

him from some baleful spell. He gave 
his hand to Rosy. “Come! it is get- 
ting late ; let us go home,” he said. 

The nosegay of golden-rod and pretty 
scarlet leaves lay forgotten on the cliffs ; 
the gold and purple faded out of the 
western sky, and the tender twilight 
settled softly down upon the plain, as 
the two, hushed to a strange silence, 
made their way back to the house. 

Will left Rosy at the door, with one 
parting look of love and pain, which 
she dimly saw through a mist of tears. 

She rushed in to her own room, and, 
throwing herself on the great, white 
bed, sobbed as if her heart would break. 

Here, a little later, Hester found her, 
and, in her own sweet way, won her to 
unburden all her heart. 

Rosy repeated something of the con- 


52 A New England Idyl . 

versation between herself and Will Han- 
son. “ And oh, Hetty ! ” she moaned, 

“ he seemed so stunned and shocked ! 
And he has gone away, thinking I don’t 
care for anybody nor anything but money , 
and that I am a mean, selfish girl ! I do 
want to be rich — but you know I am 
not all selfish — and oh, oh,” hysterically, 

“ I know now that I care more for Will 
than for all the world besides ! What 
shall I dor 

Hester could not help smiling through • 
her tears. 

“ There, there, dear ! ” she said, sooth- 
ingly, stroking the bright head ; “ it will 
all come right in time.” 

“ That’s what you always say ! ” cried 
Rosy, passionately. “ But it won’t all 
come right this time ! It can't ! Don’t 
you see, I hate to be poor and live the 


A Family Conclave . 53 

way folks do in Sherburn, and I love 
— love Will Hanson ! So there it is ! ” 

“ Rather a desperate case, dear, I con- 
fess,” said Hester, “ but you will surely 
find your way out of it, if you are true 
to yourself, and remember one thing ; 
you could never live without love — 
you have a too warm and affectionate 
nature.” 

“ Oh, I don’t expect to be happy 
ever again ! ” sobbed Rosy, dejectedly. 

Hester soothed her as best she could, 
and finally coaxed her to undress and 
go to bed. 

But her own heart was heavy. Rosy’s 
waywardness and ambition were begin- 
ning to cause her serious anxiety. She 
feared there might be more misery in 
store for her yet. 


CHAPTER IV. 


TROUBLE. — DR. RICHARD. 

Soon after this, a trouble came upon 
the little family, that for the time being 
drove all other thoughts from their minds. 

John, who was somewhat of a carpen- 
ter, had undertaken, among other odd 
jobs, to repair the roof of the barn, which 
leaked badly. Overcome by a sudden and 
unaccountable dizziness, he made a mis- 
step and fell from a high beam to the 
floor, where he lay like one dead, while 
poor little Jerry, who had been helping 
his brother, ran in, crying out that “Johnny 
was killed!” 

They managed to get him into the 
house and on to a bed, and it was not long 


54 


Trouble , — Dr, Richard, 


55 

before he was restored to consciousness; 
but he was badly bruised and shaken, and 
his right leg proved to be broken. He 
suffered great pain before they could fetch 
a doctor, and Jerry and Rosy went half 
wild with grief. 

Aunt Nancy added to the general ex- 
citement by rehearsing her recent dreams 
and forewarnings. “ Didn’t I tell ye some- 
thin’ awful was a-goin’ ter happen, when 
that ’ere jar fell down off’n the shelf with- 
out a livin’ soul touchin’ on’t? And the 
dreams I have had! Night afore last I 
heard a trumpit sound, and last night it 
was a turrible storm! I’ve been prepared 
for this all along! ” 

u It’s a good thing to be prepared,” re- 
marked Rosy, bitterly. “ I’m prepared for 
any misery, myself.” 

There proved to be one consoling fea- 


56 A New England Idyl . 

ture in the aspect of affairs. The accident 
brought Dr. Richard Bemis to them, and 
his very presence was a relief and com- 
fort, not only to Hester, but to all the 
family. 

John bore the pain of having the bone 
set like a hero, but when told, in answer 
to his inquiries, that he might have to lie 
by for the winter, he rebelled. 

“I can’t! I can’t!” he said. “ What 
will become of my chopping? I must be 
earning something! ” and for the first time 
he gave way to tears. 

They tried to console him. “ Perhaps 
it will be a good thing for you in the end,” 
said Hester. “ I have been wishing that 
you could have more time for study.” But 
he thought only of the family, and could 
not see how they were to live without his 
earnings. 


Trouble . — Dr . Richard . 


57 

“ Do try to believe that God will take 
care of us,” whispered Hester at last, and, 
worn out with pain and excitement, he 
dropped asleep with these words lingering 
in his ears, his hand clasped lovingly in 
hers. 

Then the doctor came and stood beside 
Hester, looking down with deep solicitude 
into the face so dear to him. He leaned 
over and drew her head to his bosom. 

“Hester,” he said, a world of tender- 
ness in his eyes, “you are tired, and you 
are troubled; let me help you.” 

“You do help me — you have helped 
me already,” said Hester, glowing beneath 
his gaze. “ How long it is since I have 
seen you ! ” 

“'Yes; fortunately, I had just come 
home. But this is rather a sorry meeting. 
Poor John! I hope he will do well, and I 


58 A New E ?i gland Idyl . 

see nothing to hinder, if he only will not 
fret himself to death.” 

“ Dear boy, it is hard for him,” sighed 
Hester, softly. 

“ Do you know, I am almost jealous of 
your children!” said Richard, half seri- 
ously. “And sometimes I am tempted to 
doubt if they are worth the sacrifice we 
are making for them, or, at least, if it is 
7 iecessary. But forgive me, darling,” — 
seeing the shadow come back to her face, 
— “ and let us both take courage. There 
is a prospect of my going over the moun- 
tain to settle permanently. Old Dr. Man- 
ning is about retiring from practice, and 
as I have been recently connected with 
him somewhat, I shall expect to come into 
a large share of his business. He is a 
good friend to me, besides, and that is 
worth something.” 


Trouble. — Dr. Richard. 59 

“ Oh, yes ! How glad I am ! ” said Hes- 
ter, her eyes beaming. “ Of course, your 
success has always been only a question 
of time,” she added, proudly, “ but it is 
good to see it nearer.” 

“It shall be near” said the doctor. “ In 
a year or two, at the farthest, I ought to 
be able to take you — and ‘our family ’ — 
unto myself.” 

“ Our family ! ” She repeated the 
generous words tremulously, gratefully. 
“ Oh, Richard!” she murmured, “I do 
believe you are the best, most unselfish 
man in the world!” 

He' stopped her mouth with kisses. 

“ Now, one thing more — for I hear 
Aunt Nancy coming, and I must attend 
to her ‘rheumatiz’ — promise me that 
you will take better care of your health, 
and let me know at once if you need me.” 


6 o A New England Idyl . 

“ Yes, I promise,” she said, and Aunt 
Nancy at that moment came tiptoeing 
into the room. 

“ It’s a massy he’s fell off ter sleep, poor 
boy ! ” she whispered. “ I s’pose Hester’s 
been tellin’ ye, doctor, ’bout my forewarn- 
ing and dreams — never knew ’em ter fail. 

“ Here’s the bottle for the lingment. 
I declare,” — aside to Hester, — “ who’d 
’a’ thought poor Johnny’s misfortin’ 
would be the means o’ my gittin’ a 
doctor to my rheumatiz ! Now, if I 
only had the aprons!” 

“ 6 It’s an ill wind that blows nobody 
an}- good, 1 ” quoted the doctor, who had 
listened much amused, though he did 
not fully understand her allusions. 

“ That’s so ! ‘ what’s one man’s meat 
is another man’s pisen ! ’ ” she answered 
glibly, not to be outdone. 


Trouble . : — Dr. Richard. 


6 1 


The doctor’s visit seemed to cheer 
them all, and left them a little stronger 
to bear the extra burden that had come 
upon them. And yet, as has been 
seen, no one thought of seeking pecu- 
niary aid from Richard Bemis. 

In the first place, pride would have 
restrained them from calling upon him, 
under the existing circumstances, even 
if he had been abundantly able to assist 
them. But they knew he was not. 

On the other hand, he was far from 
realizing the straits and perplexities that 
made up the daily life of the Rug- 
gles family. In Sherburn, people were 
supposed to derive their support mainly 
from their farms ; and when the crops 
were good, and there was no extra out- 
lay, it would seem that the Ruggles 
place, small as it was, might be a con- 


62 A New England Idyl . 

siderable dependence, if not a comfort- 
able support. 

After Dr. Bemis returned to the city, 
only an occasional letter passed between 
him and Hester. They were both too 
busy to spend much time in letter- 
writing. 

Rosy, imagining her sister’s spirits 
were drooping, roused herself to be 
more cheerful and helpful. She and 
Jerry did the “chores” together, like 
“ two good boys,” as she expressed it 
to John, who declared that her funny 
account of their doings was as good as 
a circus. 

Among other jobs, she and Jerry 
set about replenishing the wood-pile, 
and they worked at it with great vigor, 
Rosy sawing away, very awkardly at 
first, but by and by “ as handy as a 


Trouble. — Dr. Richard. 63 

man,” Jerry said, admiringly. Jerry split 
and piled. 

On stormy days, or when she was 
needed, Rosy helped Hester with the 
sewing, or waited upon John, and heard 
him recite his lessons. In short, she 
behaved in a manner so altogether ad- 
mirable that Hester could only wonder, 
and thank God. 

Rosy had not seen Will Hanson since 
the day they went to the falls together, 
except once at church it happened that 
during the singing of the last hymn their 
eyes met, and, though neither knew it 
of the other, each felt somehow com- 
forted by what the glance revealed, 
and went away less miserable. 

“ My rheumatiz is gittin’ along splen- 
did,” said Aunt Nancy, ambiguously, 
one night, as they sat around the fire. 


6\ A New England Idyl . 

“ And, with two sech smart boys to take 
John’s place, we should be all right if we 
could only manage ter git enough ter eat.” 

“ ‘ Aye, there’s the rub ’ ! ” said Rosy. 
“We’ve got the old cow, and that’s 
about all. Sometimes I’m so meat- 
hungry that I am tempted to kill her 
m} 7 self, and eat her up ! ” with a comi- 
cally savage grimace. “ But that would 
not do, because then we shouldn’t have 
the milk.” 

“ No,” said Hester ; “ but I guess we 
will manage to get a little meat to- 
morrow, somehow.” 

The next morning, while they were 
all at work in the kitchen, some one 
rapped at the door. Rosy hastened to 
open it, and there stood good Uncle 
Abel Davis, who lived away off on a 
hill-farm, miles away. 


Trouble . — Dr . Richard . 65 

“Why, Uncle Abel, how do you do ?” 
cried Rosy, cordially. “ Come right in 
and see the folks.” 

“ No, no ; can’t stop,” said the old 
man. “ Glad ter see ye home agin,” 
chucking her under the chin. “ Come 
over V try our cider ’n’ bring Hester — 
bring the hull family! 

“ Sorry John’s laid up so — pooty 
rough ! Fact is, I’m in a dretful hurry 

— jest stopped ter leave some fixin’s 
mother sent the boy, and this little piece 
o’ beef. 

“ Jest killed a beef creatur, ye know 

— more ’n we want. If ye can’t eat it 
yourselves, give it ter the hens — good 
for ’em ! ” and the odd, kind old man 
was off before Rosy could say a word. 

She lugged in the beef, and Jerry took 
the basket. They set them down in 


66 A New England Idyl . 

the middle of the kitchen floor, and 
executed a war-dance round them — “ for 
all the world,” Aunt Nancy said, “ like 
tew hungry Injins.” 

They carried the basket in to John, 
and let him uncover it. There were 
jelly, cold chicken, nice apples, and 
gingerbread, such as boys like, and a 
huge cake of maple sugar. 

“ Blessings on Uncle Abel and on 
Aunt Abel , his wife ! ” cried Rosy, 
excitedly. Then she rushed back, and, 
dropping down on the floor beside the 
leg of beef, burst into weak hysterical 
tears. 

“ Oh, Rosy, Rosy ! were you so 
hungry ? ” exclaimed Hester. “ I do 
believe you were starving for meat ! 
Why didn’t you let us know before ? ” 

“ Nonsense!” said Rosy, jumping up 


Trouble, — Dr, Richard, 67 

and brushing away her tears. “ A low 
diet agrees with me ! Do you know, 
Hetty, there is nothing like hunger — 
real gnazving hunger — for curing 
the heartache ! A counter-irritant — 
you know ; ha, ha ! I don’t see how 
poor folks can ever be very senti- 
mental. 6 When want comes in at 
the door, love flies out at the win- 
dow,’ you know. 

“ I believe,” she rattled on, “ that I 
could cure Miss Arbuckle in a fort- 
night — yes, in a week — if she would 
only follow my directions — ” 

u Oh, Rosy, don’t ! ” There was a 
look of grief and pain in Hester’s face, 
and she seemed on the point of herself 
breaking down. She seized Rosy’s 
hand and drew her towards the bed- 


room. 


68 A New England Idyl. 

“ Girls ! ” Aunt Nancy called after 
them, brandishing the big butcher-knife, 
“ girls, the beefsteak will be ready in 
ten minutes ! ” They looked at each 
other, and laughed hysterically. 

“ Dear old soul ! ” said Rosy, tearfully. 
66 She has more common sense than 
both of us ! ” 

Then they shut the door and fell 
into each other’s arms, and cried to- 
gether. All the self-denial, and the 
hunger, and the anxious care of weeks 
avenged themselves at last. They spoke 
not one word, but just clung to each 
other, and cried till they had cried their 

fill. 

Aunt Nancy put her head in at 
the door. 

“ The beefsteak’s all done to a turn,” 
she said. “ Let’s eat it while it’s hot.” 


Trouble . — Dr . Richard . 69 

Rosy sprang up and wiped her eyes. 

a A good idea!” she said, laughing. 
“ Come on, Hetty ! ” and they went out 
to dinner. 

“ Now,” remarked Aunt Nancy, help- 
ing Rosy to the beefsteak first of all, 
“ if anybody in this family goes ter bed 
hungry to-night, it won’t be my fault, 
nor the fault o’ Providence.” 


CHAPTER V. 


JERRY AS A HERO. 

One morning, about a week after the 
events in the foregoing chapter occurred, 
Hester announced that the flour-barrel 
was empty. 

“ I have been saving it along hoping 
to have a little left to make Jerry his cake 
for Christmas ; but the meal gave out at 
last, and I had to use it. Now we have 
neither. We ought to have had some 
corn ground before, but I was waiting for 
a neighbor to come along who would 
take it to mill. I hated to ask any one 
to go on purpose. How we do miss old 
Dolly ! ” 


* 


70 


yerry as a Hero . 


7 1 


“ Why can’t I take a bag of corn to 
mill on my sled ? ” asked Jerry, eagerly. 
“ I could haul it just as easy as any- 
thing.” 

Hester looked at the little fellow. “ It 
is three miles to mill, and a long, cold 
road,” she said, thoughtfully. 

“ Pooh, what’s three miles ? Don’t 
I walk most as far every day when I go 
to school ?” 

“ But there are no houses where you 
could stop to warm.” 

“ Let the child go,” put in Aunt 
Nancy. “ It’s a case o’ necessitude, and 
the Lord ’ll take care on him.” 

“ If the poor little man should happen 
to freeze to death on the road, I djgh 
know as it would be much wor?vvould 
starvation ; and that’s what Ay on. 
coming to!” exclaimed Ro. c he, “ while 


72 A New England Idyl . 

“ No, we ain’t all a-comin’ ter starvation, 
nuther ! ” said Aunt Nancy. “We shall 
weather it — you mark my words now, 
Rosy Ruggles. It’s alwers darkest ’fore 
dawn.” 

“ Say,” persisted Jerry, pulling at his 
sister’s gown, “ mayn’t I go with the 
corn ? ” 

“ I suppose you will have to, dear — we 
need it so much,” she said, reluctantly. 
“ But you must bundle up warm, and 
perhaps you will get a ride back.” Then 
she caught him up in her arms and 
kissed him fondly. “ You are Hester’s 
own little man ! ” she whispered. 

He returned her embrace with interest, 
a fl ran away to get ready for his trip, 
take u in the thought of helping Hester, 
to go on \ n was shining brightly when he 
Dolly ! ” for a mile or so he went 


Jerry as a Hero . 


73 


merrily on his way. Though it was 
pretty cold, he did not mind it much, 
because he was used to that ; but it was 
very slow travelling, for the load was 
heavy, and as it took about all his 
strength to haul it, he lost a good deal 
of time in resting. 

All would have been well, however, 
but a terrible snow squall now set in. 
Just as he had passed the big pine tree 
that was called the half-way mark to 
the mill, the wind began to blow a 
hurricane, and the air was so filled with 
the thickly falling snow that he could 
hardly see his way. The sharp wind 
cut like a knife, and searched poor Jerry’s 
well worn garments, chilling him through 
and through. But, thinking it would 
soon be over, he struggled bravely on. 

66 1 can’t freeze,” thought he, “ while 


74 ^4 New England Idyl . 

I have to work so hard.” But soon he 
grew strangely tired and faint, and was 
obliged to sit down every few steps to 
rest and get his breath. 

Then he would rally for a moment, 
and, starting up, exert all his remaining 
strength to go on a little farther. 

“ They must have the meal at home,” 
he murmured. “ It is to help Hester, 
— and I love Hester. She said I was 
her 4 little man ? too, so I must be brave.” 
He remembered Aunt Nancy’s words, 
“ The Lord will take care on him,” and 
looked blindly up into the heavens, 
wondering vaguely if the Lord would 
indeed take care of a little boy like 
him. But finally will and strength failed, 
and he sank down beside his sled, 
unconscious. 

There, a little later, a neighbor on 


Jerry as a Hero . 75 

his way to mill found him, half buried 
in the snow. The storm was over and 
the sun was shining pleasantly as if it 
had always shone the same, and the 
mountains looked down protectingly from 
above on either side, as if to guard the 
brave young life. 

The kind man chafed his limbs, and 
soon restored him to consciousness. He 
then lifted him and his sled on to his 
own strong pung, and drove to the mill 
as fast as possible. The miller’s wife 
warmed and fed him, and Jerry declared 
he felt as good as new. 

Some severe remarks were made about 
sending such a little fellow so far in 
winter weather ; but Jerry, feeling in- 
stinctively that the family honor was 
involved, made light of the whole affair 
— explaining how his brother was laid 


7 6 A New England Idyl . 

up with a broken leg, and he teased his 
sister till she let him come. 

The corn was ground at last, and they 
rode home, Jerry wrapped up warmly 
in the farmer’s buffalo robe. 

The anxiety of the family during his 
absence can be imagined. And when 
he came back safe and sound, and told 
his eloquent little story, they cried over ' 
him, and petted and praised him to such 
an extent that he went up to bed feeling 
quite like a hero. 

Aunt Nancy followed him up stairs 
with a bowl of catnip tea, and a hot 
flannel to wrap round his feet, and while 
she was tucking him in with unusual 
care, Jerry whispered in her ear, “ Aunt 
Nancy, I guess the Lord does take care 
of little boys.” 

“ Of course he doos ! ” was her em- 


Jerry as a Hero . 


77 


phatic rejoinder. “ And now you shet up 
your eyes and go right to sleep.” So she 
left him to his faith and to his dreams. 

Jerry’s room was a typical New 
England farm-house garret. A dozen 
narro\v, steep, stairs led up to it. It 
extended the whole length of the house 
and had a tiny window at each end. It 
was unfinished, — that is, unlathed and 
unplastered, — and the floor was rough, 
unplaned boards. But the chinks in the 
roof had been pretty effectually stopped 
up, so that it was water-tight, and on 
the floor in front of the bed was one 
of Aunt Nancy’s largest, thickest braided 
rugs. 

Even in the severest winter weather, 
when snugly tucked in between the 
feather-bed and warm blankets and com- 
forters Jerry could laugh at the cold. 


78 A New England Idyl . 

Jerry loved that garret ; the children 
all loved it. In the first place, it was 
sweet with all the old-fashioned, good 
smells. The dried apple and pumpkin 
that hung on the rafters, the bundles of 
catnip and sage and sweet marjbram, 
of lavender and pennyroyal, that accumu- 
lated every* year. Then in good seasons 
there were huge piles of butternuts, 
hazel-nuts, and beechnuts, which fur- 
nished many a feast, as well as fasci- 
nating occupation in the cracking, for 
the stormy days and long winter even- 
ings. And the children liked them to 
carry to school in their pockets. 

All along the roadsides near the 
school-houses in the country, every- 
where, may be seen the great, fiat 
stones littered with nut-shells, left there, 
not by the squirrels, as one might at 


Jerry as a Hero . 79 

first suppose, but by the children, and, 
seeing them, we are reminded, perhaps, 
of many a careless, happy hour in our 
own school-days. 

Well, it was in the garret chamber 
that the nuts were stored. The yellow 
corn, too, occupied a bin in one corner, 
unfortunately handy to the thieving mice. 

The great family loom stood oppo- 
site Jerry’s bed. Jerry’s grandmother 
had woven all the cloth for family wear. 
Every fall she wove webs of red or blue 
or checked flannel for her own and her 
daughter’s dresses, and also the cloth 
for the boys’ jackets and trowsers. But 
the old loom had not % been used legiti- 
mately since Jerry’s recollection. It was ^ 
for years his and Rosy’s playhouse. 
Hither they had been wont to bring 
their dolls and toys, and anything in 


80 A Neiv England Idyl . 

the shape of eatables that they could 
coax Aunt Nancy to give them, and 
they would play at keeping house in 
grand style. But this, too, was past ; 
Jerry was older now, and the old loom 
had been gradually assuming a new 
character. He had learned to regard 
it as a sort of personal presence, — a 
gigantic sentinel and protector, — and 
when he dimly saw it standing there, 
just before dropping off to sleep, he felt 
indefinitely that he owed to the loom 
much of his comfortable sense of secu- 
rity. 

Dearer than all were the familiar 
sounds that came to him in the solitude 
of his garret chamber. 

The roar of the waterfalls among the 
mountains seemed to Jerry’s religious 
young soul the awful voice of God him- 


Jerry as a Hero . 81 

self — a ceaseless reminder of his omni- 
presence and power. Had he been less 
conscientious and innocent, it would 
have filled him with fear and dread. 
As it was, adoration and awe were the 
only feelings it inspired. This one 
sound of the waterfalls was the grand 
accompaniment to all the lesser sounds in 
nature, and the “ Holler ” people grew 
to love it, and to miss it and pine for it 
when they went away, as the dwellers 
on the coast do for the noise of the sea. 

Next to the morning concerts of the 
birds, Jerry enjoyed the pipings of the 
cheerful frogs. They always seemed 
to close the day with hope and promise 
for to-morrow. 

Then there was the rain on the roof! 
How many of us remember that sound 
somewhat as we do our mother’s lullaby ! 


82 A New England Idyl . 

How many tired heads and hearts long 
in vain to-day for that perfect, ideal 
sleep of their youth, when the patter of 
the rain on the humble roof lulled 
them to sweet forgetfulness and rest. 



CHAPTER VI. 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 

A very strong friendship — we might 
almost call it a romantic attachment — 
existed between Rosy and her brother 
John. There was just enough difference 
in their ages to render them companion- 
able, and in their temperaments to make 
each a help and support to the other. 

John thoroughly admired his sister. 
He considered her the handsomest girl 
he had ever seen, and the smartest and 
best. Though many boys at his age 
begin to have their favorites among the 
girls of their acquaintance, he had never 
seemed to care for any one but her. 
Either consciously or unconsciously, he 
83 


84 A New England Idyl . 

compared and weighed them all in the 
balance with Ros}', and found them 
wanting. 

So lover-like was his devotion, in 
fact, that Will Hanson’s evident liking 
for Rosy had caused him considerable 
uneasiness. 

“ Why should Will Hanson come 
hanging round my sister?” he grum- 
bled to himself; “ why wouldn’t some 
other boy’s sister do just as well!” 
It did not occur to him that possibly 
Will’s taste was as fastidious as his own; 
that he, too, could appreciate Rosy’s per- 
fections. 

And to Rosy there was no one quite 
like John. Her ambition in regard to 
his future was as boundless as his own. 
She never questioned but that if he only 
had the chance he would become a very 


Brother and Sister. 


85 


great man. It is an advantage to any \ 
boy to be believed in, and to have great S 
things expected of him. Such a boy / 
is likely to at least do the best of which/ 
he is capable. 

The two were in the habit of having 


long confidences ; they could always say 
to each other what they could to no one 
else — not even to Hester. So, on the 
morning after Jerry’s heroic adventure, 
Rosy went to John’s room and sat down 
by him with the intention of relieving 
her overcharged heart and mind. 

“John,” she began, abruptly, “I was 
all upset by yesterday’s doings, and some- 
how I can’t get over it. To think of 
that blessed baby going through with 
such an experience ! To think that it 
was necessary to keep this family from 
starving ! ” she added, bitterly. “ I only 


86 A New England Idyl . 

wish I had gone myself, and I wish I 
had been frozen to death and buried up 
in the snow — so deep that nobody could 
ever find me ! ” 

She dropped her head down on the 
pillow, and sobbed passionately. 

John made a sudden movement that 
caused him to groan aloud with pain, 
and put his arm around her, and laid 
his cheek to hers. 

Rosy continued to sob, till presently 
she imagined that she felt tears on her 
face that were not her own. She stopped 
crying and looked at John. 

“ Why, John — John Ruggles ! ” she 
said, “ are you crying ? Oh, what a 
miserable, wicked girl I am, to come in 
here, when you have so much to bear 
already, and make you feel ten times 
worse ! What a selfish, thoughtless 


Brother and Sister. 87 

sister ! ” and her tears fell all the 
faster. 

“ Rosy, Rosy, hush ! you are the best, 
dearest sister in the world, always. I 
am only weak — as weak as I am use- 
less ! ” 

“ Now, John Ruggles, you stop this 
instant ! ” said Rosy, sitting up and 
shaking back her hair, and putting on 
her most energetic air of authority. 
“ Ton have some excuse for being shift- 
less and poor and hungry ! Who ever 
heard of a person with a broken leg 
going to mill — or doing anything else, 
except lying still and obeying orders ! 
We don’t count you in now, — of course 
not,” with a grand wave of the hand, 
which struck John as so comical that 
he laughed in spite of himself. “Yes,” 
he assented, “ it is quite evident that I am 


88 A New England Idyl . 

not ‘counted in.’ But Rosy, — ” in some 
embarrassment, “ tell me, are you — are 
you — very hungry? 99 

She turned upon him squarely. “Are 

— are you?” she retorted, imitating his 
tone and manner. Then they both 
laughed — Rosy hysterically. 

“ Hungry ! ” she said, “ why I haven’t 
had enough to eat — no, not half enough 

— since we received Uncle Abel’s dona- 
tion! And, do you know, it makes me 
wild to think how easy it would be to 
just ask them to bring us some more. 
They have enough and to spare — and 
how glad the dear souls would be to 
feed us, if they only knew ! ” She looked 
at John feverishty, eagerly; but his face 
grew firm and cold. She understood 
at once. “ Of course I wouldn’t think 
of such a thing — ” she stammered; “oh 


Brother and Sister . 


89 


dear, no! not for a moment ; but one 
can’t help thinking. Is it not tantaliz- 
ing to remember that beefsteak and the 
pie — and everything !” 

“ Yes, yes, it is,” said John, “ but let 
us hope that things will be different 
soon ; either we shall have more to 
eat — or, who knows but we may learn 
to live without eating, or — ” 

“ Or die — starve ,” finished Rosy, bit- 
terly. 

“ See here,” said John, wishing to 
divert her. “ See here, I have food 
enough for my brain , haven’t I ? I 
can cram my old head till it bursts, if 
I choose. And I have been studying 
hard, I tell you. Here’s Chemistry, 
Philosophy, Ancient History, English 
Literature — and all these medical books 
that Doctor Richard brought me. Do 


9 ° 


A New England Idyl . 

you know, I mean to be a great doctor? 
That’s why I am so anxious to get 
ahead in my Latin ; and Mr. Aiken tells 
me I am doing first-rate.” 

Rosy nodded. “ Of course,” she said, 
proudly. “ And if it were not so try- 
ing to you, we should all be glad you 
are having such a good chance to study.” 

He turned to her abruptly. “ Look 
here,” he said, “I am going to tell you 
what I’ve been thinking of lately. 
There’s one thing I could do — that is, 
if I had anything to do with. If I had 
a saw and some white-wood and walnut, 
I could make those beautiful brackets 
and baskets and things you’ve seen in the 
city stores, and perhaps sell them for a good 
price. See, I have designed these pat- 
terns,” displaying several drawings which 
Rosy thought very graceful and pretty. 


Brother and Sister . 91 

66 How much money would you need, 
to begin with ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, about ten dollars, for material 
and all,” said John, with a dismal sigh, 
“ but it might as well be ten hundred.” 

“ The money may come; who knows?” 
said Rosy, dreamily. 

“ Oh, yes ; the sky may fall,” he 
returned, sarcastically. 

Rosy hesitated. Should she tell him 
of what had entered her own mind, of 
the project which as yet was only a 
dream? It might never be anything 
more. But, yes! she would tell him; it 
could do no harm, and might at least 
make him a little more hopeful. Be- 
sides, she wanted to know what he 
would think of it. She relied a good 
deal upon John’s judgment. 

“ Johnny,” she began, nervously, “ per- 


/ 


9 2 


A New England Idyl . 


haps / can earn the money you want 
so much. I am thinking some of going 
into business. Just imagine me a woman 
of business ! with my sign out over the 
front door ! ” 

“ And what would it say on that sign 
— over the front door?” asked John, 
laughing, but curious. 

She put her lips down close to his 
ear and whispered it, — 

“ Rosanna Ruggles , Dressmaker l ” 

“ No? ” said John. 

“ Yes, really,” she answered, delight- 
ed^. Since she had given expression to 
the idea in audible words, it did seem 
-<ore like reality, more practicable. 

Well,” said John, I always thought 
**e the brightest, ’cutest girl in 
and now I know it ; what’s 
v you will make it go — this 


Brother and Sister . 93 

business! Plow did you happen to think 
of it ? ” 

“ Oh, it came to me. The fact is, 
I’ve laid awake hours and hours since 
I came home, trj'ing to think of some- 
thing I could do.” 

“ Poor Rosy!” said John, sympatheti- 
cally. 

“I guess you’d say poor Rosy if 
you knew all I have to trouble me,” 
she said, half crying, half laughing. 

“ PPulloa ! what have you been doin°-? 
Getting into debt — or love? I do believe 
it is love ! ” he added, teasingly. 

But, having excited his curiosity, she 
seemed satisfied. “ Never mind now ! ” 
she said; “ I was going to tell you that 
I think I will ask Mrs. Aiken what she 
thinks of my plan, and if she encourages 
me, I will go ahead and try it.” 


94 


A New England Idyl . 

“That’s right, — I would,” said John. 

Mrs. Aiken was the minister’s wife, 
and she had been for years a faithful 
friend and counsellor to the family. She 
thought very favorably of Rosy’s scheme. 

“ I have no doubt you can do some- 
thing to begin with, and perhaps eventu- 
ally work into a nice little business,” 
she said. “ The sewing circle meets 
with me next week, and I will speak 
to the ladies about it. It does seem 
to me that a good many will be glad 
to employ you ; I shall, for one, and 
you may begin on my new black cash- 
mere. I will come over to-morrow 
afternoon to be measured, if that time 
suits your convenience.” 

Rosy went home feeling as if she 
were fairly started hi business already. 
She told the family about it (she had 


Brother and Sister . 


95 


not breathed a word of it before, except 
to John), and they were both surprised 
and delighted, and wondered why they 
had not thought of it before. 

“You know,” said Hester, “3'ou have 
fitted our dresses for years, and you do 
trim beautifully, when you have anything 
to trim with.” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Nancy, admiringly, 
“you alwers was a born dressmaker, 
Rosy.” 

“ I have got a new chart,” said Rosy, 
“a great improvement on the old one.” 
She brought it out and explained it to 
Hester ; then they looked over the new 
fashion-books she had brought from the 
city, and before bedtime Mrs. Aiken’s 
black cashmere dress was all planned. 
And the planning is half, as every dress- 
maker knows. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE MINISTER. — THE OLD SUGAR-BOWL. 

Jerry had a positive genius for tear- 
ing his clothes, and the next day, early 
in the afternoon, he came in with his 
only pair of trowsers greatly demoral- 
ized. Aunt Nancy looked at them in 
despair. 

“ Jerry Ruggles !” she said, eying him 
severely over her spectacles, “ how many 
times more do ye s’pose I’m a-goin’ ter 
mend them trowsers ? They’re patched 
so now, I can’t tell what they’s made 
on in the fust place. I’m a good min’ 
ter make ye wear petticoats! You’ll have 
ter, fur’s I see, ’fore the winter’s out.” 

96 


The Minister . 


97 


But when Jerry began to whimper, 
her heart relented, and, taking off the 
offending garment, she made Jerry sit 
down in a chair, and wrapped an old 
shawl round his legs. Then she set 
about the mending. Before she had fin- 
ished, the minister and his wife came in. 

Mrs. Aiken soon went into the sitting- 
room to see about the new dress; but the 
minister lingered by the kitchen fire, chat- 
ting with Aunt Nancy. 

Presently, that good lady, happening 
to turn round, discovered the cellar door 
ajar. 

“Wall, there ! ” she said, “I thought 
I felt a draught. Jerry, go ’n’ shet tb, 
suller door.” the 

Jerry looked at his half-bare b John’s 
then appealingly at his aur 
eyes were on her work. .c and protege. 


98 A New England Idyl. 

“Jerry ! ” she repeated, sharply, “why 
don’t ye go V shet that door ? ” 

Receiving no answer, she looked up 
and remembered how it was with Jerry. 

“ Dear me ! I dew declare ! ” she ejac- 
ulated, greatly flustered, as she rose and 
shut it herself. 

The minister smiled, and, going over 
to the little fellow, bundled him on to 
his knee — old shawl and all. “Jerry,” 
he said, “ what would you wish for, if 
you could have just what you want ? ” 

The good man had in mind a pair of 
pantaloons at home, which he thought 
might be made over for the boy. 
m Jerry looked up into his face reverently 
so ia moment, without answering ; then 
on in t* : — 

ter make yoose I ought to wish I might 
ter, fur’s I seep heaven, or something of 


The Minister . 


99 

that sort, hut I’d rather be alive and 
have lots o’ money .” 

The minister looked surprised, and 
Jerry felt sure he disapproved. 

“ I hate to be poor ; don’t you ? ” he 
said, deprecatingly. 

“ The Son of Man had not where to 
lay his head,” returned the minister, 
gently, stroking Jerry’s bright hair. 

“ Does that mean he hadn’t any home?” 
asked Jerry, wonderingly. 

“ Yes, my son.” 

“Why-e-e! what in the world did 
he do ? Did he board round ? ” 

The minister laughed out loud , and, 
dropping the astonished Jerry into a chair, 
went off muttering something to the 
effect that he “ must go and hear John’s 
lesson.” 

John was the old man’s pet and protege. 


IOO 


A New E 71 gland Idyl . 


It was Mr. Aiken who loaned him books 
to read, and talked them over with him 
afterwards. And since he got beyond 
the district school he had directed his 
studies, and, when necessary, heard him 
recite. For he was himself a scholar, 
though he had no ambition to shine as 
such, and would not have exchanged 
his mountain home and the simple people 
of his charge for all that cities could 
afford : — 

Remote from towns, he ran his godly race ; 

He ne’er had changed nor wished to change his place. 

In return for his kindness, John revered 
and loved him as a son. 

“ This accident rather interferes with 
the chopping business, I suppose,” he 
remarked to John that afternoon. 

“Yes sir; and if it were not for my 








The Minister . 


IOI 


books, I believe I should fret myself to 
death. It is so hard to lie here and do 
nothing, and be supported by a pack of 
women ! ” 

“Easy! easy ! ” said the minister, smil- 
ing. “ It is well enough to have proper 
spirit, but patience is also a virtue.” 

“Yes, but it is I who should work for 
them — not they for me ! ” he said, bit- 
terly. 

“ I wonder if we can’t think of some- 
thing for you to do. Let us see, what 
is there ? ” 

John hesitated. “ I don’t suppose it 
is of any use to speak of it,” he said at 
last, “ but when I was over the mountain, 
in the fall, I saw a good many brackets, 
and other things, sawed out of black- 
walnut and white-wood. They were 
very pretty, and sold at good prices. I 


102 A New England Idyl . 

thought then I could make some much 
handsomer, and I think so now, if I only 
had a saw and the materials.” Then 
he showed his designs. 

“ How much would the saw cost ? ” 

“ Oh, about eight dollars, and then 
the material, — say ten dollars to begin 
with ; — but we might as well say a 
hundred, for that matter,” he added, im- 
patiently. He did not mention Rosy’s 
hopeful suggestion — the thought of us- 
ing her earnings upon any experiment 
of his was out of the question in his 
own mind. 

The minister looked grave : ten dollars 
was a good deal of money. 

“Ah, well, do not fret,” he said; “and 
lay it before the Lord ; lay it before the 
Lord, my son.” 

John smiled grimly. His faith was 


The Minister . 103 

rather below par just now ; but the min- 
ister bade him a cheerful good-by, and 
he and his wife soon took cheir departure. 

Little Jerry had come into John’s room 
in season to hear the latter part of the 
conversation. He curled himself up on 
the foot of the bed and with his beloved 
jack-knife and a bit of board began to 
whittle and think and wish. 

“ Ten dollars ! oh, what a lot of 
money ! If I was only a big boy now, 
I would manage to get it for him.” 
The desire so burdened his heart that 
he dreamed about money all night, and 
woke up still troubled and anxious in 
the morning. At the breakfast-table 
Hester noticed his unwonted gravity, 
but she said nothing. 

Suddenly the boy jumped up, with 
his mouth full of johnny-cake, hauled 


104 A New England Idyl . 

his chair after him, and capered round 
the room, hooting and acting “for all 
the world like a crazy creatur’,” Aunt 
Nancy said. Accustomed as they were 
to Jerry’s antics, they were all somewhat 
startled by this unusual demonstration. 

“What under the sun ails ye, Jerry 
Ruggles ? Have ye swallered another 
tooth ? Come here, this instant, and 
lem me see ! ” exclaimed Aunt Nancy. 

“ Oh, I’ve got it ! I’ve got ! ” screamed 
Jerry, rushing up to her and hugging 
her till she couldn’t breathe. 

“ What have ye got, child ? Lem me 
see — and behave yourself ! ” 

“ I’ve got ten dollars — the ten dollars 
for Johnny ! He can have his saw now, 
and earn stacks o’ money ! ” 

“Girls,” said the old lady, rising de- 
liberately from the table, “you must 


The Minister . 


IO S 

help me ter put that ’ere child ter bed this 
minute, and git some mustard draughts 
on to his feet, or he’ll be a ravin’ lunatic 
’fore night ! ” 

“ Wait a minute,” said Hester. “Jerry 
dear, come here,” and she drew him on 
to her lap. “ You aren’t crazy, are you ? 
What is it ? Tell us all about it.” 

“ I guess I ain't crazy ! ” exclaimed 
Jerry, with an indignant glance at Aunt 
Nancy, “and if you want to put mustard 
draughts on to my feet, — you just try it, 
that’s all ! There's the ten dollars !” 
pointing triumphantly at great-grand- 
mother’s old sugar-bowl. 

“ Don’t you remember what Miss Ar- 
buckle said about that sugar-bowl ! / 

do ! She said she'd give us ten dollars 
for it any time ! ” 

“ Sure enough, she did,” ejaculated 


io 6 A New England Idyl . 


Aunt Nancy, slowly, “and I alwers 
thought she must be a little weak- 
minded to vally an old sugar-bowl so 
high. It never cost more ’n seventy-five 
cents when ’twas new.” 

“ But, aunty, it’s over a hundred years 
old,” said Rosy. 

“ All the wuss for that. Who wouldn’t 
ruther have a new thing than an old one! 
There can’t be much wear in it ; it’s 
cracked now.” 

“Yes,” assented Hester, “and I didn’t 
mean to use it much. I don’t know 
how I happened to put it on this morn- 
ing.” 

“ I know,” said Rosy, laughing. “ I’ve 
noticed that whenever Hetty feels uncom- 
monly worried or low, she puts on the 
old sugar-bowl.” 

“Just as she gives me my pretty china 


The Minister . 


107 

mug to use when I’m sick ! ” interrupted 
Jerry. 

Hester smiled faintly; she did not deny 
it. “ As far as the money is concerned,” 
she continued, “I’m afraid there’s nothing 
practicable in Jerry’s idea, since Miss 
Arbuckle is not here.” 

Jerry’s face fell, and he said no more 
about it, but he continued to ponder 
over it. 

The next day was Sunday, and in the 
afternoon, when he was sitting alone with 
John, he asked him, as he often did, if 
he might have a sheet of paper, and take 
his lead-pencil. John allowed him to 
have them and went on with his reading. 

We copy the letter that Jerry, with 
great labor and thought, with much twist- 
ing and chewing of the tongue, and 
cramping of his chubby fingers, wrote 


108 A New England Idyl. 

to Miss Arbuckle. It was printed in 
large, bold letters, and Jerry felt very 
proud of it — so much so that he was 
sorry he could not show it to the family: — 

Deer Mis. Rbuckel. 

Jony has brok his leg and 
he lays abed and feels bad cos he can’t urn eny 
munny. So do I and me and Rosy chops the wod. 
Jony wants io dolers to by a sor so he can make 
sum things to urn munny. You can have the ole 
shugr-bole you sed you wod give io dolers. I 
send my luv. 

Pleas ansir rite off cos I’m in a hurry. 

Jerry Ruggles. 

This epistle he put carefully away in 
his pocket, and the next day he stopped 
at the minister’s on his way to school, 
and laid the case before the minister’s 
wife and showed the letter he had writ- 
ten. She read it through thoughtfully, 
without a smile or a twinkle of the eye, 


The Minister . 


109 

and told him if he would leave it with 
her, and trust to Providence, she thought 
it would all come out as he desired. 

He left the precious letter, and went 
away with the great secret almost over- 
weighting his young heart, and feeling 
that he could not wait very long even 
for Providence — the anxiety and suspense 
were so hard to bear. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DRESSMAKING. HIGH ART. 

As a result of this interview, it came 
to pass that about a week afterwards a 
neighbor brought a letter to the house, 
post-marked Boston, and directed in prin- 
ted letters to “ Master Jerry Ruggles, 
Sherburn Holler.” The contents were a 
ten-dollar bill and the following note: — 

Dear Little Jerry: — I send you the price 
of the old sugar-bowl, which I shall be very glad to 
have. Will you keep it safe for me till I come up 
next summer ? I send a kiss to you, and love to all. 

Annie Arbuckle. 

Jerry snatched the money 7 , threw down 
the letter — his first letter — for the others 
to read, and, rushing into John’s room, put 

IIO 




Dressmaking . — High Art . 1 1 1 

the crisp new bill into his hand ; then 
laying his curly head down on his big 
brother’s breast, he sobbed aloud. 

John looked at the money and at Jerry 
in amazement, and when, at last, he was 
made to comprehend it all, “ head of the 
family” though he were, he cried too, 
joined eventually by the others, until 
Rosy, in order to change the aspect of 
affairs, dragged Jerry out into the middle 
of the floor, and, with great ceremony, 
introduced him to her audience in these 
words : “ Ladies and gentleman, behold 
the twice-proved hero of the Ruggles 
family! The bravest, dearest, ’cutest little 
Yankee boy in the world ! ” 

“Hurrah!” shouted John, and Rosy 
joined in. Aunt Nancy waved her dish- 
cloth and tremulously echoed it, and Hes- 
ter kissed him without a word. 


1 12 A Nezv England Idyl. 

John kept Jerry with him all the rest 
of the evening, amusing him and telling 
him stories, till for once he had his fill. 
In short, he went to bed so happy that he 
could hardly realize he was the same 
little boy that had worried through all 
the anxious days since he sent that letter 
to Boston. 

To tell the truth, the Ruggles pride 
suffered somewhat on account of Jerry’s 
transaction; but they consoled themselves 
with the thought that they could set the 
matter right next summer, when Miss Ar- 
buckle came. 

John procured the much-coveted saw 
and materials, and set to work at once, 
with great enthusiasm. He very soon 
began to turn out articles so wonderful 
and pretty that Rosy declared there must 
be some magic about it. 


Dressmaki ng. — High Art . 1 1 3 

The first lot he sent to the city, Doctor 
Betnis took to a dealer with whom he 
was acquainted, who not only bought 
them at a fair price, but also praised the 
patterns and the work, and ordered more. 

To say that John was happy would but 
feebly express his feeling of relief and 
satisfaction at being no longer quite de- 
pendent on a “ pack of women.’’ 

Jerry regarded the whole thing as a 
stupendous, successful enterprise, in 
which he himself was a prime factor. 
Indeed, John took him formally into 
partnership, and gravely consulted him 
on all matters pertaining to the business. 

The good Sherburn folks did not have, 
new dresses every day in the week, ? the 
Rosy found the intervals of waiti& good 
customers rather discouraging ter once, 
many only had their dresses f]y black silk!’ 


1 14 A New England Idyl . 

them up at home, with perhaps a little help 
from her in the trimming and draping. 
This, of course, was not so profitable; 
but as the weeks wore away a little 
money came surely in, and she realized 
that it was a dependence in a small way, 
and promised well for the future. 

Another good result of the experiment 
was that it gave her mind occupation, 
and filled many an hour pleasantly that 
would otherwise have been spent in rest- 
lessness and repining. 

One bright afternoon, as Rosy and Hes- 
ter sat sewing, they heard the jingling of 
sleigh-bells, and, looking out, saw Mrs. 
Saunders — “Aunt Polly Sarnders,” as 
wierybody called her — drive into the 
began She was bundled up so as to be 
and preurecognizable, but, after much 
be some magf foot- warmers and wraps 


Dressmaking . — High Art . 1 15 

and mufflers, and much rummaging un- 
der the seat for boxes and bundles, with 
a good deal of assistance from Jerry, 
she came finally waddling and puffing in- 
to the house. 

Aunt Polly was the largest woman in 
town, — a literal mountain of fat, — and 
when divested of her outer wrappings, 
she looked like nothing so much as a 
huge bolster , with one string tied round 
where her neck and another where her 
waist should be ! 

“ I’ve come over, Rosy,” she said, 
laughing and chuckling good-naturedly, 
“ ter git you ter make up my new black 
silk. It’s ben layin’ in the draw’ goin’ 
on three year, and when I heerd the 
minister’s wife settin’ out what a good 
hand you was at dresses, I says ter once, 
6 I’ll go ’n’ git her ter dew my black silk!’ 


ii 6 A New England Idyl . 

Yes,” she continued, “ I made up my 
mind ter hev it done ; and father, he 
’greed with me. ‘ It ’ll be a-fallin’ ter 
pieces,’ says he, 6 if it lays much long- 
er ! ’” and she laughed again, till she 
shook like a mountain of jelly. 

“ I am so glad to make it, Aunt Pol- 
ly!” said Rosy, delightedly, letting the 
silk fall in rich folds, and looking at it 
with sparkling eyes. “I will make it 
just as nice as I possibly can.” Then 
she stopped suddenly, looked at Aunt 
Polly, and almost laughed aloud. “ Oh, 
such a figure ! ” she groaned mentally. 

“ If it were only for Hester , now, what a 
pleasure it would be to make it ! ” 

But, after all, dressmakers are not re- 
sponsible for the figures of their cus- 
tomers ; and, consoled by this reflection, 
she jumped up and ran for her tape- 


Dressmahi ng. — High Art . 1 1 7 

measure, in order to begin upon it at 
once. 

“ You wouldn’t believe it,” Aunt Polly 
chuckled as Rosy walked round her with 
the tape-measure pulled out to its fullest 
extent, “ but I’ve seen the day when your 
dresses would fit me loose. 

“ Now, look here ! ” she continued, 
earnestly, “ I don’t want no furbelows, 
nor flounces, nor nothin’ o’ the kind. I 
jest want it made up real plain and com- 
mon-sense, ye know.” 

“ That’s the right idea,” said Rosy, 
approvingly, “but I should like to make 
3 r our skirt a little longer than this one ; 
can’t I?” 

Aunt Polly put out one foot — dis- 
playing a neat shoe, with a few inches 
of blue woollen stocking above it. 

“Wall,” she assented; “but I wont 


n8 A New England Idyl . 

have no trails a-wipin’ up the floors — 
it’s a nasty, shif’less fashion ! ” 

“ Oh, no ; it needn’t touch,” said Rosy. 
“ but it might be — say, three inches — 
longer ? ” 

“ All right, Rosy ; and make it plenty 
big in the waist and arm-sizes, so ’s ’t I 
sha’n’t never bust out nowheres — that’s 
so mortifyin’ ! And you may as well 
turn the skirt down a good piece ter 
the top, seein’ there’s plenty o’ silk. 
His second wife may be taller, ye 
know,” facetiously, beginning to laugh 
and shake once more. 

Rosy promised to have it all satisfac- 
tory, and just then Aunt Nancy came 
into the room. 

“Now, Mis’ Sarnders,” she said, hos- 
pitably, “you’re jest a-goin’ ter stay ter 
tea ! We’ll have it real early, so you’ll 


Dressmaki ng. — High Art . 1 1 9 

git home ’tween sundown and dark,” and 
the girls added their entreaties. 

“Wall, I declare, I hadn’t thought o’ 
sech a thing, and I dunno ’s I’d ought 
tew ! ” said Aunt Polly, but she finally 
consented, and, seating herself comfort- 
ably in the big rocking-chair, whisked 
out her knitting-work and began to talk. 

“ She meant to stay all the time,” 
laughed Rosy afterwards ; “ if not, how 
was it she happened to have her knitting- 
work along ! ” 

Aunt Polly was what the Holler folks 
called “good company.” She was nat- 
urally intelligent, and if she could have 
had the advantage of early education, 
she would no doubt have been a superior 
woman. As it was, she was very bright 
and entertaining in her homely way. 

She had read considerable, and, not- 


120 A New England Idyl. 

withstanding her enormous size, which 
one would naturally consider a serious 
drawback to locomotion, she had “ been 
round ” more than most of her neighbors. 
She had a daughter married and living 
in the cit\', “ over the mountain,” whom 
she often visited, staying weeks at a time, 
and always picking up much that was 
new and interesting to bring back and 
rehearse to her less fortunate neighbors 
at home. 

Her daughter’s only child was a girl 
of about Rosy’s age, who had once or 
twice accompanied her mother in her 
visits to Sherburn, and excited great in- 
terest among the young people on ac- 
count of her beauty, her fashionable 
dress, and city airs. 

Rosy inquired for her now. “ Is Juliet 
as pretty as ever. Aunt Polly ? ” 


Dressm aking . — High A rt . 1 2 1 

Aunt Polly’s cheerful face clouded. 
“ Yes, she’s as pretty as ever, fur’s I 
know,” she answered, dubiously • “ but 
Juliet Jones is in a bad way — / call 
it — for herself and all consarned. Her 
mother’s worried most ter death about 
her, and her father, — wall, he’s jest 
disgusted! — that’s how Lyman is.” 

“Mis’ Sarnders, dew for pity’s sake tell 
us what Juliet Jones has gone and done !” 
exclaimed Aunt Nancy. “ I dew hope 
it ain’t nothin’ ter disgrace her family ! ” 

Aunt Polly shrugged her shoulders and 
laughed. 

“ No, no ; nothin’ o’ that kind. But I 
declare I don’t know exactly how ter tell 
ye what it is. I think’s likely you’ve all 
heard tell, or read somethin’ about these 
’ere 6 estheticks ’ ” — 

“ Oh, yes ! ” interrupted Aunt Nancy, 


122 


A New England Idyl . 

“ they’re dretful! They wheeze anybody 
all up so ’s ’t they can’t breathe lay in’ 
down. I wanter know if she’s got them 
fastened on tew her! ” 

“ Oh, aunty ! ” said Rosy, laughing, “ I 
guess you’re thinking of the word 6 asth- 
matic — aren’t you ? ” 

“ Mebby I be,” allowed Aunt Nancy, 
— “ words are so much alike. But go on, 
Mis’ Sarnders, and tell us — then we shall 
know.” 

“ Wall ! as nigh ’s I can find out, they 
’riginated down country, in Boston and 
round ; though I presume they’re all 
over with there, long ago, but they’ve 
jest got ’em up here in the mountains, 
and that’s how Juliet happened to have 
’em.” 

“ Why, then they’re ketchin’ ? ” said 
Aunt Nancy. 


Dressm a king. — High Art . 123 

Hester and Rosy exchanged glances. 
“We know what you mean now, Aunt 
Polly,” said Hester. “Juliet is foolishly 
carried away about art — pictures and 
statuary and everything of that kind?” 

“Yes, yes; that’s it, only it is ‘ high 
arV that she raves over. Goodness 
knows what that means — I don’t ! ” 

“But how does it seem to affect her?” 
asked Aunt Nancy. “What’s the symp- 
toms, as the doctors say?” 

“ I’ll try and tell ye. In the fust place, 
she’s gone ter work and made the hull 
house dismal and uncomfortable. It used 
ter be real pretty and cosev, inside and 
out. But Juliet, she’s carried off all the 
rockin’ chairs, and arm-chairs, and every 
other comfortable piece o’ furnitoor, and 
put in a lot o’ this straight-backed, ‘ high 
art’ stuff, that it makes your bones ache 


124 A New England Idyl . 

jest ter look at, ter say nothin’ o’ seatin’ on 
it. Then she’s took down all the doors, 
and hung curtins up where the doors 
orter be — ” 

Here Aunt Nancy held up both hands 
in amazement. “ Curtins instid o’ doors ! ” 
she exclaimed. “ Massy sakes! what for?” 

“ For looks. It’s one o’ their high art 
notions, ye know. She don’t call ’em 
curtins, though. She calls ’em ‘ forty- 
airs'* or ‘ draperies .’ Nor she don’t 
call curtins, curtins ; she calls ’em dra- 
peries , and everything else that is made o’ 
cloth and has any hang tew it.” 

“ Oh, she doos? I s’pose she would 
call a tcnvel a ‘ drapery ’ then? ” said Aunt 
Nancy, with sarcasm. 

“Yes,” Aunt Polly continued; “and 
she’s lugged off all the picters that used 
ter hang on the walls, that her par and 


Dressmaking. — High Art . 125 

mar set so much by, — a good many of 
’em was weddin’ presents, ye know. 
There was 6 The Empty Sleeve ,’ 6 The Old 
Arm Chair,’ and a lot more — most on ’em 
was these chromeos. Wall, she’s cleaned 
’em all out, and hung up hern; copies of 
the ‘ old masters,’ she says, and I shouldn’t 
wonder if they was, for there ain’t a single 
bright, cheerful-lookin’ one in the lot! 
She’s cluttered the mantletry shelves and 
tables all up with what she calls ‘ Bricky- 
brack ’ — old cracked and broken dishes, 
and outlandish things of every descrip- 
tion — the older they be the better she 
seems ter like ’em.” 

“ She orter have the old sugar-bowl, 
girls,” suggested Aunt Nancy. 

“ And the way she spends her time is 
a burnin’ shame. She used ter be a great 
help and comfort tew her ma. She was 


126 A New England Idyl . 

fond o’ cookin’ and workin’ round in the 
kitchen, and she could trim a cap or a bun- 
nit as well as a perfessional milliner. But 
now she lops round all day, with a book 
o’ silly poitry in her hand, or else she’s a- 
paintin’ old pots and jars, or playin’ on the 
pianner. — And seek playin’; I took pains 
ter ask her the names o’ the pieces, they 
was so lonesome and peculiar. She said 
they was 4 fugues ’ and 4 sonnarters’ and 
4 simfonies.’ She never played a good 
lively tune while I was there. I asked 
her if she couldn’t play some o’ the 
Moody and Sankey pieces. She give me 
an awful witherin’, squelchin’ look, and 
says she, 4 I play only classical music, 
grandma.’ I felt cheap, for I didn’t know 
but what that was jest as 4 classical ’ as 
any. But I spoke up tew her, and says I, 
4 1 don’t care ! them Moody and Sankey 


Dresstn a king. — High A rt . 127 

pieces have got some tune to ’em, and 
good, moral words, any way, classical or 
no classical! ’ The wust on’t is the way 
she treats the young man that’s keepin’ 
company with her. He’s a nice, stiddy 
young man, and her par and mar both 
think the world on him. She used tew, 
but she’s changed. Not but what I think 
she really likes him, but she’s taken ter 
snubbin’ him, and settin* down on him, as 
you might say, lately ; and I don’t know 
jest how long a smart, high-sperited 
feller like him is a-goin’ ter stan’ it. 
He must be sick ter want to marry 
her now, any way, ’less she comes out 
o’ these tantrums. She may lose him yet, 
if she don’t look out, and I told her so.” 

“ Oh la! I shouldn’t worry about her,” 
said Aunt Nancy, placidly. “ Young girls 
are apt ter be flighty and full o’ notions. 


128 A New England Idyl. 

If it ain’t about one thing it’s another. 
She’ll git over it in time.” She looked 
at Rosy abstractedly, who blushed a 
little. 

“ And does Juliet really enjoy those 
things — the dreadful music and the poe- 
try and broken dishes ? ” she asked. “ I 
should think it would be very tiresome. 
Does she seem happy?” 

“ No, she don’t,” answered Aunt Poll}’, 
emphatically. “ She wa’n’t brought up 
ter sech things, and it don’t come nateral 
nor handy tew her to like ’em. She jest 
thinks it’s the proper thing ter dew, — 
she’s got that idee fixed somehow, — and 
so she must dew it ; but I know it galls 
her, and wears upon her, and I’ll bet, if 
it wa’n’t for her ambition, she’d give it all 
up ter-day. Why ! Juliet Jones was cut 
out for a pretty, frisky little home body. 


Dressm aking . — High Art . 129 

She can’t be a scholar nor an artist, — it 
ain’t in her ! 

“ I’m the last one in the world to object 
ter anybody’s workin’ out what’s in ’em, 
whuther it’s paintin’ or music or any- 
thing. else; but when it ain't in ’em, all 
they can make of it is a poor miser’ble 
imitation — a sham ! And that’s about 
what a good many folks amount tew 
now’days, — shams ! when if they’d try 
the thing nater fitted ’em for, they might 
be real folks and a success.” 

That night when the two girls were 
going to bed, Rosy asked Hester what 
she made out of the account of Juliet’s 
“ craze.” 

“ Oh, I suppose it is true,” said Hester, 
“ that there is a great deal of humbug 
about culture nowadays, and what is 
called i art culture ’ in particular. I 


130 A New England Idyl . 

don’t think it is strange that girls with 
plenty of leisure and money, in the cities 
where such opportunities are offered, 
should be ambitious in that direction. 
And, in many cases, even if it does not 
develop any positive talent, it must 
be a great advantage — as with Miss Ar- 
buckle. But evidently it is sometimes 
a silly and dangerous experiment. 

“ I should say — though I know very 
little about it — that Aunt Polly is right, 
and one’s natural bent of mind should 
be the test of fitness for every pursuit. 
The cultivation of any real talent God 
has given us ought never to make us 
miserable or unworthy.” 

“ I hope and trust I am not too ambi- 
tious in cultivating my one humble talent 

for dressmaking,” said Rosy, laughing. 

» 

u But do you know,” she added, “ I feel 


Dressm aking . — High Art . 1 3 1 

as if I were already fairly started, and if 
it were not for — for just one thing , I 
should be the happiest girl in town,” and 
she heaved a doleful sigh. 

Hester said nothing — only smiled, and 
kissed her cheek. She felt that it was 
best to leave her to herself. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE WOOD-PILE. LOVE. 

The little family were now compara- 
tively comfortable. They no longer feared 
the wolf at the door, and the cold winter 
had lost its prospective terrors. With 
roaring fires, plenty of nourishing food, 
and work enough for all, they began to 
“lift up their heads and feel like folks,” 
as Aunt Nancy expressed it. 

That good woman had added not a little 
to the family income, by knitting warm 
woollen mittens for the farmers and their 
boys. She prided herself on this accom- 
plishment, often declaring, when finishing 
up an extra nice pair, that they were 
“ good enough for the Prince o’ Whales , if 


132 


The Wood-Pile . — Love. 133 

she did knit ’em ! ” One pair, into which 
she put her choicest work, found its way 
every winter to the minister; and as a pair 
would stand two or three years’ wear, in 
the course of time they accumulated to 
such an extent that he was wont to re- 
mark to his wife that he “ ought to be 
‘ four ha?ided' > (forehanded) if not more , 
to wear so many mittens ! ” 

The long winter evenings passed very 
pleasantly. John usually read aloud an 
hour or two, as the family sat round the 
table busily at work. Among other books, 
he had been reading a history of the 
American Revolution, in which Jerry was 
much interested. It was one wild, stormy 
night — when the wind howled, and blew 
the snow in great drifts about the little 
old house — that they sat cosily by the 
kitchen fire, John reading from the his- 


134 ^4 New England Idyl . 

tory, the rest listening while they worked. 
He had arrived at the account of the fear- 
ful sufferings of the American soldiers 
during that last cold winter. How they 
endured long marches, — hungry, and 
clothed in rags, — their poor feet, frozen 
and torn, leaving bloody footprints behind 
them in the snow. 

Jerry could not bear to hear it, and, 
dropping his head down on the table, he 
wept long and bitterly. 

“ I know something about it,” he 
sobbed, remembering his experience that 
day he went to mill. “ I think the snow 
and cold are terrible and cruel l I don’t 
see what God made ’em for,” — shuddering 
as the noise of the tumult outside came 
for a moment to his ears. 

“ Pooh !” said John, lightly, “in some 
places it is winter all the time, you know, 


The Wood-Pile . — Love . 135 

and the people love it. In Lapland it is so, 
and they have jolly times riding on their 
sledges — and what do you think ! when 
they go to church, they carry the babies 
and leave them outside, buried up in the 
snow to keep warm, with a dog to watch 
them !” 

Jerry laughed. “How funny!” said 
he. 

“John Ruggles ! ” said Aunt Nancy, 
looking at him severely over her specta- 
cles, “ perhaps you think it’s right ter 
divart and amuse a child with a pack o’ 
lies — but I don't ! ” 

“ Oh, it’s true, every word of it,” said 
John, laughing. “ I’ll show you where it 
tells about it in the book.” j s as o-ood 
“Oh, wall, no matter— y ca]ls us her 
if the book says so — b^ osy „ he aclded> 
deal ter swaller,” said 


136 A New England Idyl . 

Rosy had been so busy with her sew- 
ing that she had not done much at 
sawing wood for some time, and, as 
Jerry remarked, “ the job wasn’t half 
finished.” 

It was one warm sunny day, soon af- 
ter the storm, that Jerry came in, and, re- 
minding her of the fact, coaxed her to go 
out and work with him awhile. 

The exertion of sawing, and at the same 
time keeping up a running conversation 
with Jerry, gave Rosy’s cheeks the color 
of a peony, and obliged her to stop pretty 
often to breathe and rest. 

It was in one of these pauses that 
she was suddenly confronted by Will 
al'the noisSh^^tarted as if she had seen 
for a tv r butv mediately regaining her 
self-possession, silked herself into a 
more lady-like postu. nd asked? coolly> 


The Wood-Pile . — Love . 


137 

“ Where did you come from ? — out of the 
ground ? ” 

“ No,” said Will, “ I just came to the 
house of an errand, and, hearing voices 
out here, I thought I’d come round.” 

“ Good weather for sawing wood,” re- 
marked Rosy, in a business-like tone, 
taking up the saw as if about to resume 
her work. 

Will came over and took the saw out 
of her hand. 

“Oh, don’t ! ” said Rosy. “ I need the 
exercise, and we like it — don’t we, 
Jerry ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed — I guess we do!” Jerry 
answered. “ We’ve had packs of fun. I 
like to work with Rosy; she’s as good 
as a boy. Aunt Nancy calls 11s her 
two boys — me and Rosy,” he added, 
proudly. 


138 A New England Idyl. 

Will began to saw gravely, without 
lifting his eyes to hers. 

Jerry kept on splitting, and Rosy turned 
to go. Will looked up beseechingly. 
“ Don’t go, Rosy,” he said. “ It is warm 
here in the sun; sit down awhile and 
rest, wont you ? ” 

She sat down and watched him at his 
work. “ He is so strong ! ” she thought, 
admiringly. “ It is only child’s-play for 
him to saw wood.” But she began to 
wish he would speak, or at least look 
at her. 

“ Will.,” she said, sharply, “ you are 
getting that wood too long! ” 

He slipped the stick back and short- 
ened the cut, but said nothing. 

“ Oh ! ” making another attempt, “ do 
you know that I have gone into busi- 
ness?” 


The Wood-Pile . — Love . 139 

“ Into the wood business ? — sawing 
and splitting?” 

“Well, yes,” laughing; “but into the 
dressmaking business, too. I’m making 
lots of money,” nodding her bright head 
emphatically. 

“Yes, and you’ll probably wear your- 
self all out, and have another fever,” with 
a reproachful look of his handsome black 
eyes. 

“ Oh, no ! ” she answered, lightly. 
“This is altogether different from work- 
ing in the mill.” 

“ Oh, I dare say,” turning to his 
work. 

“Yes, and when I get tired sewing, 
and want a change, I can saw wood, 
you know.” 

Will frowned. “ Promise me that you 
will not saw any more wood,” he said. 


140 A New England Idyl . 

“ Oh, I couldn’t possibly do it,” with a 
little defiant toss of her head. “ I always 
like to finish things I begin. But we may 
need some help — perhaps you would like 
a job?” watching him mischievously 
through her half-closed eyes. 

“ I think I shall take the job,” said 
he, his face flushing. “Jerry and I will 
finish the wood. ” 

“ Jerry and I will finish the wood ; we 
will let you know if we want you,” said 
Rosy, coolly, and, pulling on her hood, 
walked into the house without another 
word. 

Will set his teeth and sawed for a few 
minutes as if his life depended on it. 
Jerry stopped loading the basket, and 
studied his friend’s face attentively. 

“Will,” said he, “what’s the matter? 
Do you feel bad ? ” 


The Wood- Pile. — Love . 


Hi 

“ Yes, I do, little man,” answered Will, 
impulsively. 

“ Is it about Rosy ? ” asked Jerry. 
“She’s funny, ain’t she?” he continued, 
reflectively. “Now, when you’re here, 
she seems cross to you, just as if she 
didn’t like you ; but when you ain’t here, 
she calls you 4 dear old Will,’ and says 
she — ” 

“ What! ” interrupted Will, drawing in 
his breath sharply, and picking Jerry up 
in his arms. “What did you say? Tell 
me again . 7 

“I said she calls you ‘ dear old Will,’ 
and she does. — Don’t squeeze me so! — I 
heard her say it twice the other night, 
when she and Hester were talking. And 
she cried, too, and said how that she 
loved — ” 

“ There, never mind, Jerry; that ’ll do,” 


142 A New England Idyl. 

said Will, hastily. “ Perhaps she’ll tell 
me the rest herself sometime.” 

“I guess she will — sometime,” said 
Jerry, encouragingly; “ but I wouldn’t ask 
her to-day* — she is cross to you to-day. 
But she’s never cross to me,” he added, 
loyally. 

“ Jerry,” said Will, abruptly, “ what do 
you want most of anything in the world? ” 

The child laughed: “ Oh, I want lots of 
things! ” 

“ But what? — tell me what! ” 

“ Oh, I want a top, and a cart, and a 
new story-book with lots of pictures in 
it.” 

“ What else ? ” 

Jerry grinned. “I guess that’ll do,” he 
said. “ When I get them , mebby I’ll 
think of something more.” 

Will gave him a hasty kiss, and set 


The Wood-Pile. — Love. 


H3 

him clown on his feet and went into the 
house. 

“ Have you got all the wood sawed ?” 
asked Rosy, saucily, as he entered the little 
sitting-room, where she was sewing alone. 

He went straight up to her, without a 
word, flung her work aside, and, with one 
swift, passionate movement, clasped both 
her hands in his, and drew her close, 
looking down into her lovely, half- 
frightened face, with a glance both mas- 
terful and fond. He dared not kiss her, 
but he bent his head till his lips touched 
her hair. 

“ Rosy, Rosy, tell me you love me — 
tell me!” he cried, half beseeching, half 
commanding. 

She flushed hotly, but obeyed. “ I do ! 
oh, I do!” she whispered; “I love you, 
but — ” 


144 A New England Idyl . 

“ Rosy” broke in Aunt Nancy, that 
moment heaving in sight, “ I wish you’d 
go’n’ jest smell o’ them emptin’s; I say 
they’re sour! I hain’t had no kind o’ luck 
with my riz bread lately, all on account 
o’ the emptin’s bein’ sp’ilt,” she grumbled. 

Rosy fled to look after the “ emptin’s,” 
and Will took his leave with a light heart, 
though not quite satisfied, remembering 
Rosy’s last word. 

From that day, however, they were the 
best of friends. There was no more open 
love-making, but each understood, by the 
thousand little signs known only to those 
who love, that there was no need. 

Hester looked on, well pleased, and 
Aunt Nancy gave in her opinion that 
“ Rosy was goin’ ter settle down, and be 
a good, stiddy woman, after all.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE CITY BOARDERS. 

And so the winter wore away in Sher- 
burn Holler, its quiet monotony enlivened 
by no exciting events of any kind. No 
receptions, balls, or operas ; no lectures, 
church fairs, even, nor suppers. And 
yet their simple, innocent pleasures sat- 
isfied their needs. 

There were sewing circles, quiltings, 
apple-bees, and spelling-matches, and an 
occasional surprise party. In the spring 
there were sugar parties, when the young 
people assembled in the evenings to boil 
the sap, and eat their fill of maple sugar. 

And now the snows begin to melt up- 
on the mountains, adding new thunders 


145 


146 A New England Idyl . 

to the cataracts. The little brooks, swol- 
len almost to rivers, rush noisily through 
the meadows. The cattle in the barn- 
yards rejoice in the warm sunshine, and 
salute each other with many a friendly 
bleat and bray. The fowls bestir them- 
selves, scratching industriously about in 
the bare, soft spots for the poor worm, 
that, with the rest of the world, would 
fain creep out from its winter quarters. 

The voice of the pewee and the robin 
are heard abroad in the land; and the 
ploughman hastens to prepare his fields 
for the sowing and the planting. 

Peace and comfort and happiness have 
settled down upon the Ruggles family. 
Aunt Nancy has realized the fulfilment 
of her modest desires. Her rheumatism 
is nearly vanquished, and every after- 
noon she fairly crackles in her stiff- 


The City Boarders . 147 

starched white aprons, which Rosy boun- 
tifully supplies. 

Jerry is the happy possessor of the 
promised treasures — the top, cart, and 
picture-book; and he will consider Will’s 
word as good as the Bank of England, 
hereafter. He wears a pair of new trow- 
sers made out of the minister’s; and a 
new jacket, abounding in pockets, hangs 
on a peg in the closet. 

John, released from his long confine- 
ment, rejoices once more in his strength, 
and goes about his spring work with his 
head full of plan^ for improving the 
farm, and repairing the house the com- 
ing year. Indoors, they are house- 
cleaning and making ready for summer 
boarders. Miss Arbuckle had written 
to Hester saying that she should like 
to come a little earlier than usual, and 


148 A New England Idyl . 
asking if she might bring her brother 

O ID sD 

along with her. 

“ Being somewhat out of health,” she 
wrote, “ his physician recommends moun- 
tain air ; and as he is passionately fond 
of trout-fishing, I proposed that he should 
take a trip in the direction of Sherburn 
Holler, and stay with me awhile. 

“ I have given him such glowing ac- 
counts of your wonderful trout-brooks, 
and the beautiful scenery of your quiet 
little valley, that he is more than willing 
to come, provided you can accommo- 
date him.” 

They considered the subject carefully, 
and finally decided to let him come. The 
price of his board was a consideration 
which they could not afford to overlook. 

Rosy pouted. She did not like the 
plan. 


The City Boarders . 149 

“ I presume he is a dandy, and will 
make fun of us all,” she said. 

The next day, at the dinner-table, Rosy 
was strangely absent-minded and silent. 
At the conclusion of the meal, she got 
up and ran round to where Aunt Nancy 
sat in her high-backed chair, and, leaning 
on her shoulder, began coaxingly: — 
“Mamsey dear, you are the best and 
nicest old auntie in the world, as we all 
know — but if you only would try to be 
a little more stylish , now, just to please 
me! You know people don’t do every- 
where exactly as we do here in the 
Holler. We’re a little bit old-fashioned, 
and I should hate to have those city 
folks that are coming laugh at us, and 
make fun of our gawky manners ! ” 

Aunt Nancy looked round at her, smil- 
ing fondly. 


150 A New England Idyl. 

“ What crick have you got inter your 
head now, dear? ” she said. u Yonr man- 
ners is well enough — fit for a queen, 
any day, and Hester’s tew. I know Pm 
old-fashioned; I’m afraid I should make 
gawmin’ work at these ere new-fangled 
ways. But nobody expects old folks ter 
be ginteel.” 

“ If you only would eat with your 
fork,” suggested Rosy. 

Aunt Nancy took up the silver fork 
beside her plate, and looked at it 
grimly. 

“ Didn’t I tell ye,” she said, turning to 
Hester, “ didn’t I tell ye, when Rosy sent 
these ere forks home, that I couldn’t 
never use one on ’em ! It’s alwers laid 
side o’ my plate, faithful, but its only for 
show; this is the tool I depend on ! ” 
holding up a three tined steel fork. “ Now, 


The City Boarder s. 15 1 

this, for real sarvice, is wuth a cart-load 
o’ them things! 

“ You ain’t reasonable , Rosy,” she con- 
tinued. “ If you’d be contented ter 
lemme use it for a fork, mebby I could 
larn ter dew that much, in time; but 
when ye come ter want me ter cut up 
my pie and eat beans and pertater with 
it, — why, I say it ain’t in natur’! ’Taint 
no kind of a fork , in the fust place ! ” she 
added, contemptuously, “ and ’taint a 
knife, and ’tain’t a spoon — ’tain’t 
nothin’!” Then she turned and patted 
the young girl’s cheek and looked at her 
wistfully. 

“ I tell ye, Rosy, ‘ it’s hard lamin’ old 
dogs new tricks.’ Let the young folks 
put on all the style they wanter, but 
don’t bother your old aunty ’bout sech 
things. Not but what I’d dew it willin’ly, 


152 A New England Idyl . 

ter please ye, if I could,” she added, 
regretfully, “ but I’m tew old and clumsy. 
’T wouldn’t be no use ter try.” 

Rosy turned away; “It’s a great pity,” 
said she, bitterly, “ that Miss Arbuckle 
ever came here, with her fine city 
manners ; and if she must come again, I 
do wish she would leave her brother at 
home ! ” 

“Rosy,” said Hester, “you know Miss 
Arbuckle never made fun of us. I’m 
sure she could not have treated us with 
more respect ; and she seemed to love 
Aunt Nancy almost as much as we do. 
The old are not expected to fall in with 
all the ways of young people — indeed, 
it would be very foolish for them to try — 
they would appear ridiculous. Don’t 
you think so ? ” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Rosy, thoughtfully. 


i53 


The City Boarders . 

“ It would be difficult to imagine Aunt 
Nancy any different from what she is, 
and I don’t know as I want her to be — 
dear old soul” — she added, remorsefully. 
“But, all the same, I do dread having that 
city fop come — for I know he is a fop! ” 
she said, spitefully. “ I should think he 
might find places enough to fish , without 
coming here ! ” 

Hester laughed. “You are so unrea- 
sonable, Rosy ! He won’t be here long, 
and think of the money!” 

“I don’t know; I begin to feel quite 
indifferent about money, nowadays,” and 
then she blushed furiously. 

The city boarders came to Sherburn 
Holler in the month of June, and they 
found it at its best. Daisies and butter- 
cups bordered the roadside. The mea- 
dows were fresh in their dress of velvety 


154 A New England Idyl . 

green. The farmer’s boy whistled merrily 
at his work, while the bobolink rollicked 
recklessly over his head, and the grand 
old hills, towering high on either hand, 
kept unwearied watch by night and day. 

On the morning after their arrival, Miss 
Arbuckle and her brother were taking an 
early walk together. They sauntered along 
to the pasture bars, and Guy Arbuckle 
stopped there, leaning on his folded 
arms, while his sister sat down on a 
mossy stone, waiting upon his move- 
ments. 

He looked about him, his eyes finally 
resting on the hills, with something of awe 
in his dissipated but handsome face. 

“ Annie,” he said, “ I wonder it this 
place strikes you as it does me ? These 
hills seem to be looking on me with — 
with disapproval. I feel as if I’d been a 


The City Boarders . 155 

naughty boy, and my mother were grieved, 
you know.” 

Annie smiled, a little sadly. “It will 
do you good to be here,” she said. 

“But,” he continued, whimsically, “isn’t 
there any wa}' to propitiate these sol- 
emn monitors — to make friends with 
them ? ” 

Annie laughed outright. “ Be a good 
boy,” she answered lightly, falling in 
with his mood, “then they will be 
friendly.” 

“ I should say it would be difficult to be 
anything, else here,” he said, with a shrug 
of the shoulders. “ One must needs be 
good for lack of opportunity to be other- 
wise. Small credit in that, eh ? ” 

“ Why, no,” said Annie ; “ when you 
are acquainted with these people, you will 
find they have many trials and temptations, 


156 A New En gland Idyl . 

and their goodness and rectitude are not 
to be despised.” 

“ Oh, I have no doubt,” he answered, 
carelessly; “ but I don’t see how they dare 
to walk crooked, with those solemn old 
fellows watching all the time,” with a nod 
towards the hills. 

“I love the hills!” she said, earnestly. 
“To me they have seemed a protection — 
a sort of barrier between me and the 
world and its worries ; and when I am at 
home in the city I often long for a sight of 
them. Oh, I love them ! ” her dark eyes 
glowing, her lips quivering with emotion. 

Guy put his arm around her and drew 
her on. He was very fond of his sister, 
and they had many tastes and sympathies 
in common; but his dissipated habits and 
loose ideas of right and wrong were a 
source of great anxiety to Annie. She 


The City Boarders . 157 

hoped that the pure and simple atmosphere 
of Sherburn Holler might do him good, 
— soul, as well as body. 

“ I am indebted to you, Annie,” he said, 
after a moment’s silence, “ for giving me 
a new sensation. As much as I have 
travelled, I never came upon a place like 
this,” still looking about him. “And the 
Ruggles family — it is unique — especially 
Rosy.” 

“ Is she not lovely ? I always think of 
her in connection with wild roses, and 
everything exquisitely fresh and natural! 
And she is as good and affectionate as 
pretty.” 

“ What a pity she should waste her 
sweetness here ! ” said Guy, carelessly, 
snipping off the head of a daisy with his 
cane. “ Couldn’t she be transplanted, 
somehow ? ” 


158 A New England Idyl. 

“ Oh, I hope not ! ” said his sister. 
u She is part and parcel of this dear old 
spot — she belongs here. Besides,” laugh- 
ing, “ I presume she is already bound here, 
by that strongest of ties. Some honest 
heart has doubtless won my Rose.” 

“ Bah ! ” exclaimed Guy, with a grimace 
of disgust, “ some country clown, I sup- 
pose ! And she seems refined — remark- 
ably so for her station, I should say.” 

“ Oh, yes ; but there are some fine fel- 
lows among these farmers.” 

Her brother yawned, and made no re- 
ply, and they dropped the subject. 


CHAPTER XL 


SUNDAY IN THE HOLLER. 

The d^y following was Sunday. Guy 
Arbuckle had asked his sister if it was 
“ to be any duller than a week-day, and, 
if so, how they were expected to kill the 
time?” She had only smiled and an- 
swered “You will see.” 

It had been this gentleman’s custom at 
home to sleep until eight or nine o’clock 
on Sunday mornings, and he determined, 
in his own mind, that he would sleep 
much later here — in fact, that he would 
shorten the day at both ends, and, with 
an afternoon nap between, he hoped to 
worry through the rest somehow. 

But it came to pass that he awoke 
159 


y 


160 A New England Idyl . 

several hours earlier than he ever did be- 
fore in his life. He awoke and opened 
his eyes wide, and listened and won- 
dered. It was the morning concert of 
the birds, and he was hearing it for the 
first time ! He thought he might be 
dreaming, and sat up and rubbed his 
eyes, while the performance still went 
on. The flute-like solos of the robins 
ended, and then the grand chorus began. 
A thousand little throats swelled the rap- 
turous song, and thousands more took it 
up, until the whole world seemed full of 
music, and throbbing with ecstasy. 

“ Is it some miracle in nature, per- 
formed for my special benefit, to re- 
prove me for my contempt of this place, 
which seems in truth to be her very 
sanctuary ? or perhaps it is the custom of 
the birds in Sherburn Holler to welcome 


Sunday in the Holler . 161 

strangers with a morning serenade ! ” 
This he muttered whimsically to himself 
as he sprang out of bed, and, throwing up 
a window, looked out upon the morning. 

The dewy meadows and pastures 
seemed still wrapped in silent repose. 
The morning song of the birds was no 
new thing to them, that it should disturb 
their tranquil slumbers. For centuries 
they had sung as they did this morning, 
and not a dew-drop had sparkled in the 
meadows, not a lamb bleated on the hill- 
side, to give sign of hearing or caring. 
Not till the sun arose and kissed them, 
would they awake to life and sense. 

The air from off the hills blew freshly 
in his face, and, throwing back his 
shoulders, he inhaled long delightful 
draughts. Still the birds sang on; chirp 
and whistle and roulade and trill, in one 


1 62 A New England Idyl . 

grand harmony. He stood by the win- 
dow and listened and mused, till, chilled 
to the marrow, he was forced to go back 

to bed. But he was too effectually 

<» 

aroused to sleep again at once. He lay a 
long time, thinking of various things, — of 
life — what it must be here in this pure, 
peaceful spot; how different from his own 
life, not always either pure or peaceful. A 
regret that was almost a pain filled his 
soul, and he vaguely resolved to make 
his future different. Thus it is that 
nature sometimes speaks to us more 
effectively than all the books or sermons. 

As the grand chorus died away, he fell 
asleep, and awakened only when the* big 
bell rang, that announced the half-hour 
before breakfast. 

The breakfast consisted of baked beans 
and brown bread, as everybody knows. 


Sunday in the Holler . 163 

What else should a respectable New 
England family have for a Sunday break- 
fast ! What else, indeed, except pie and 
coffee, which articles are perhaps almost 
as much a matter of course. Aunt 
Nancy always gave her family pie three 
times a day, in fact, if she “ could get 
anything to make it of”; and she was 
wont to boast that she “ could make a 
good pie out o’ most anything. Now,” 
she would say, “ some folks think a dried- 
apple pie ain’t fit ter eat; but I tell ’em 
it’s all in the makin’. Anything is good 
if you make it good.” 

Aunt Nancy always prepared the break- 
fast alone on Sunday morning, and then 
left the girls to wash the dishes and “ clear 
up ” afterwards. So now, as was her cus- 
tom, she proceeded at once to the sitting- 
room, accompanied by Jerry. 




164 A New England Idyl . 

Ever after her sister’s death, Aunt 
Nancy considered the religious education 
of the children her special care. And 
since Jerry was old enough to go to Sun- 
day-school, she had taken upon herself 
the task of “ lamin’ him his lesson.” It 
must be confessed that she had found it 
no easy matter, as a general thing, and 
sometimes, she declared, he “ did act like 
sin! ” 

But the minister had recently provided 
the children with simple lesson-books on 
the “ Life and Character of Jesus,” and for 
the first time Jerry was interested in his 
lessons and willing to study them. 

The subject on this particular morning 
was Christ’s death and crucifixion. Aunt 
Nancy opened the Bible and began to 
read in her business-like way, stopping to 
ask the questions and apply the text. 



Sunday in the Holler . 165 

Jerry sat on a cricket at her feet and lis- 
tened intently. It was all new to him — 
if he had ever heard it before, he was too 
young to understand its tragic meaning. 

Aunt Nancy read on : “And they strip- 
ped Him, and put on Him a scarlet robe. 
And when they had platted a crown of 
thorns, they put it on His head, and a reed 
in His right hand, and they bowed the 
knee before Him, and mocked Him, say- 
ing, Hail, King of the Jews ! And they 
spit upon Him, and took the reed and 
smote Him on the head — ” 

Here Jerry burst into loud sobs, and 
Aunt Nancy dropped her book in dis- 
may. 

“Jerry Ruggles! ” she exclaimed, “what 
under the light o’ the sun ails ye? I thought 
you was goin’ ter git yer lessons now, like 
a good boy. Stop that noise, and ’tend 


1 66 A New England Idyl, 

ter me ! What are you cry in’ for, any 
way, hey ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Jerry, dropping his head 
in her lap, “ I am so sorry for Jesus ! He 
was so good — and I love him so ! How 
mean and cruel they were to him ! Oh,” 
looking up with his little fists clinched, 
and his eyes flashing, “ I would just like 
to — to kill "’em ! ” 

“ Mercy on us ! Then you’d be a mur- 
derer, Jerry Ruggles ! Don’t you know 
it’s dretful wicked to kill ? There, now ! 
be a good boy, and ’tend ter the lesson. 
Jesus won’t love ye if you act so.” 

The good woman herself had heard the 
wondrous story till it ceased to move her, 
and she regarded Jerry’s emotion at this 
time in the light of an unnecessary inter- 
ruption. 

But Jerry was not satisfied. “ Don’t you 


Su?iday in the Holler . 167 

care, Aunt Nancy, because they treated 
Him so ? ” he persisted, wonder and re- 
proach in his face. 

Aunt Nancy looked shocked. “ That’s 
a pretty question ter ask your old aunty, 
and she a perfessor these thirty year ! ” she 
said, with dignity. 

“ But didn’t you ever feel bad enough to 
cry about it? You love Him, don’t you ? ” 

Aunt Nancy was silent for a moment, 
and a troubled expression crept over her 
gentle face. “Yes, child, I do, I do,” 
she said, tremulously, “ but I’ve read the 
story so many times — I s’pose that’s 
why it don’t affect me as it does you. 
And then,” she added, brightening, “I 
know that it is all over with, long ago — 
hundreds and hundreds of years. He is 
in glory now, at the right hand of the 
Father.” 


1 68 A New England Idyl . 

Jerry drew in a long breath of relief 
and satisfaction, and gazed wistfully out 
at the cloudless morning sky. “ I am so 
glad, so glad,” he murmured, “ for I do 
love Him.” 

“Well, dear,” Aunt Nancy said, trying 
to speak steadily, “ if you love Him and 
are a good child, some day you will go to 
Him” 

“ To Him, and to my mother ? ” 

“Yes, yes ; to Him and to your mo- 
ther.” Then she took him on her lap and 
kissed him, and wiped away his tears 
and her own. And thus the lesson 
ended. 

The village church, or the “ meeting- 
house,” stood on the main road, at the 
foot of “the mountain.” It was a build- 
ing of very unpretentious appearance, 
having neither steeple nor belfry. There 


Sunday in the Holler . 169 

was no sounding-board over its high 
pulpit, although it was built at a time 
when they were considered almost indis- 
pensable. It had no vestry ; all the 
business meetings of the society, as well 
as the weekly prayer-meetings, being held 
in some school-house, or in the large hall 
over the store, which was used also for 
town purposes. 

It was customary in the summer season 
to hold two services on the Sabbath, with 
only an hour’s intermission, and therefore 
everybody who lived out of the imme- 
diate vicinity of the church carried a 
luncheon and remained till the close of 
the second service. 

The old people ate their doughnuts 
and cheese or mince pie, cosily chatting 
together in the pews ; but the young 
men and maidens and the children be- 


170 A New England Idyl . 

took themselves to the pleasant grove 
near by, where, in a quiet, subdued sort 
of way, they held delightful picnics. 

Here each young man sought out the 
particular girl of his choice, and, if his 
courage were sufficient, he would sit 
beside her, offer some little attentions, 
hold her fan o.r parasol, and perhaps take 
her on a decorous stroll through the 
graveyard behind the meeting-house. 

To this grove Aunt Nancy and Rosy 
repaired, accompanied by the city board- 
ers, who in their different ways had 
greatly enjoyed the simplicity of the 
church service, and the restfulness of 
their surroundings. 

To Annie Arbuckle the day seemed 
an ideal Sabbath of the Lord, a season 
of perfect rest, and her heart was full of 
praise and worship. But to Guy it was 


Sunday in the Holler . 171 


only a novel experience — at best, a new 
sensation. 

He lay a long time stretched out under 
the scented pines, thinking idly of the 
quaint and simple service, and the 
quainter congregation. He wondered 
vaguely if the great world was still 
throbbing and surging “ over the moun- 
tain.” Could it be possible that a two- 
days journey out of all this rest and still- 
ness would take him into the heart of a 
great city ! Then he fell to munching 
cookies and watching Rosy Ruggles. 
How would she look clad in silks and 
laces, “ draped” and “paniered” and 
“ banged,” liked the city girls of his 
acquaintance? Somehow she pleased 
him as she was — surprising as it seemed 
when the fact occurred to him ! Her 
face and figure needed no improvement 





172 A New England Idyl . 

and her simple muslin dress and straw 
hat were all that could be desired in the 
way of adornment. Looking at her, he 
realized as never before the force of the 
saying “ Beauty when unadorned is 
adorned the most.” 

He could not help thinking it a pity 
that such rare beauty should be given 
where there was evidently so little appre- 
ciation of it. And yet, “ It is for the coun- 
try folk the sweetest wild-flowers blow.” 

Around the church steps, and in the 
horse-sheds in the rear of the church, the 
farmers congregated to talk of crops, of 
bargains, news, and politics. They talked 
and whittled, and whittled and talked, till 
the hour for afternoon service arrived, 
when they gravely shut up their jack- 
knives, brushed the chips from their 
clothing, and went in to church. 


Sunday in the Holler . 173 

Who shall say that all this social inter- 
course was less a means of grace to these 
people than the sermon and the prayer ? 

The ride home seemed but a fitting 
continuation of the service and worship of 
the day, so calm and quiet was the val- 
ley, so impressively solemn the aspect of 
the towering hills. Indeed, Guy Ar- 
buckle was moved to remark, more in 
earnest than in jest, that “ in such a place 
one could imagine what the 4 perpetual 
Sabbath ’ would be like.” And Annie 
bowed her head and softly smiled. 


CHAPTER XII. 


AN AFTERNOON VISIT. 

One pleasant morning at the breakfast 
table, Rosy signified her intention of 
spending the afternoon with Uncle and 
Aunt Abel Davis as it was a long time 
since she had visited them. The city 
boarders immediately begged the privi- 
lege of accompanying her. To this Rosy 
finally consented, but she first exacted a 
promise that they should not — even in- 
side — “make fun” of her dear old 
thriends, or of anything they saw, assuring 
the myth at, whatever might be their out- 
ward defects, “ their hearts were c pure 
gold’ — that\she loved them dearly, and 
everybody who knew them loved them.” 


An Afternoon Visit . 175 

Her fears once allayed, she was really 
happy in the prospect of their company, 
and they set out in high spirits. 

On their way thither, they passed 
through what was known as “ the vil- 
lage.” Here was the one store, and near 
by stood the “ tarvern,” with the appro- 
priate if somewhat pretentious name 
“Trout Tavern” painted on its front. 
For there were trout brooks in all direc- 
tions. One could not pass the place at 
any time of day, during the trout season, 
without meeting men or boys carrying 
great strings of the speckled beauties. 
They often sold them, and at good prices, 
too, to the travellers passing through on 
the stage. The coming of the stage once 
a day was considered a great event, and, 
except in the most hurrying times of the 
year, there was always quite a little 


176 A New England Idyl. 

crowd about the steps of the tavern, to 
greet its arrival. It came back and forth 
“ over the mountain 99 and brought and 
carried away with it all of the great city 
that some of the Sherburn folk ever saw. 

The driver was a very important per- 
sonage, indeed, and held about as many 
offices as the “Lord High Executioner 
of Titipu.” He was postman, express- 
man, newsman, arbiter — autocrat, all in 
one ; and the pompous flourish and 
crack of his great whip filled the small 
boys with unspeakable pride and de- 
light. 

The store and post-office were one. 
The tavern-keeper’s wife — Mis’ Beeman 
— had charge of the latter department. 
She had grown old in the service, — so 
old, indeed, that it was with difficulty 
she could make out the superscriptions 


An Afternoon Visit . 177 

on the letters, and as for the “ new- 
fangled” postal cards, tempting and fas- 
cinating as they were, she found it a 
laborious task to go through with them 
all nowadays, even with the aid of her 
best spectacles! But it never occurred 
to the Sherburn folks that they needed 
a new postmistress — they would as soon 
have thought of having a new minister! 

The store itself was run in a loose, 
shiftless kind of way. All supplies were 
brought from “ over the mountain,” and 
oftener than otherwise it happened that 
when one wanted a few pounds of sugar 
or a barrel of flour in a hurry they were 
“jest eout, and thinkin’ o’ goin’ ‘over’ 
to-morrer.” Fortunately, the neighbors 
were kind and obliging, and borrowing 
was always in order in Sherburn. 

But all this is a digression. We left 


1 78 A New England Idyl. 

Rosy in company with the city boarders, 
on their way to Uncle Abel’s to spend 
the afternoon. 

The Davis farm was away up in the 
“Furder deestrick,” so called because it 
was at the further end of the town. 
As we have said, it was a hill-farm, and 
instead of the meadow lands in the 
“ Holler,” one saw here only steep pas- 
tures or wooded hillsides. But the soil 
was fertile and under good cultivation, 
so that it was not uncommon to see a 
corn-field waving on the summit of a 
high hill, while sheep and cows found 
luxuriant pasturage below. 

The road that led up to the house 
seemed to wind round and round the 
mountain, and when at last they did 
come upon the little place, it was so 
suddenly, and with such an abrupt turn 


An Afternoon Visit . 179 

about, that Mr. Arbuckle remarked that 
it “ must be the end of the road.” 

When they drove into the door-yard, 
Aunt Abel came hospitably out to meet 
them. She was a plump little old 
lady, with rosy cheeks, and eyes still 
bright. Her hair — well, it must be 
confessed, she wore what they called a 
“ false front ” — but, at all events, she 
looked fifty, and was seventy. 

She seemed a little flustered, and apol- 
ogized for her husband’s absence. “ If 
he’d only knowed you’s cornin’ he’d been 
here to take care o’ the horse and so on.” 

Rosy assured her she could do per- 
fectly well without him, and proceeded 
to hitch the horse to the fence. Then 
they were ushered into the little parlor, 
which seemed rather stuffy, coming in 
from the fresh mountain air; it was dark 


180 A New England Idyl . 

as night, too, till the green paper curtains 
were rolled up, which Rosy assisted very 
dexterously in doing. 

“ Aunt Abel,” she announced, “ we have 
come to spend the afternoon and take tea 
with you, and you must make as little 
work for us as possible, and let me help 
you get tea.” 

“ Land sakes ! ” said the good lady, 
“ you’re welcome as can be, any time, and 
all you bring with you, — if you’ll put up 
with sech as I have.” 

Then she apologized again, for the dust 
on the furniture, for the imaginary disor- 
der of the room, where the chairs stood 
in a proper row, and everything had the 
appearance of having fairly grown into 
its place. 

“ Oh, the room is nice as can be, but 
just look outdoors ! ” cried Rosy. “ Miss 


An Afternoon Visit. 181 

Arbuckle — Mr. Arbuckle, see!” She 
threw open the window and pointed out 
over the valley below. 

“ Oh, Guy ! ” exclaimed Annie, “ does 
it not remind you of the Valley of the 
Lauterbrunnen ? ” 

“ It does ! it does, indeed ! ” he an- 
swered with enthusiasm. “ You have one 
of the finest views in the world ; you 
may well be proud of it,” he remarked, 
turning to Aunt Abel. 

“ Oh, I dunno; I don’t mind much about 
it,” she said. “ I’ve alwers lived right 
here, and of course things look kinder 
good and nateral to me. I s’pose like 
enough it is a pretty sight, or less stran- 
gers wouldn’t make sech a fuss over it. 
It looks best in June, for then the medders 
are greenest. Them medders yield a 
noble crop o’ hay.” 


1 82 A New England Idyl . 

She showed them the family album — 
the pictures of the children she had buried 
long ago. They looked pathetically like 
their parents, and Miss Arbuckle felt a 
pang of sympathy, realizing instinctively 
what these children must have been to the 
lonely woman, away up here in her lonely 
mountain home. 

She called their attention to two framed 
wreaths, hanging on the wall. They were 
long since colorless, withered, and un- 
sightly. They were taken from her chil- 
dren’s coffins. In the centre of each was 
a silver coffin-plate, bearing the name and 
age of the deceased. They hung on 
either side of a mourning-piece, done in 
crewel — also faded and colorless — sacred 
to the memory of their grandmother. On 
the opposite side of the room was a large, 
showy chromo, in a gilt frame. She 


An Afternoon Visit, 183 

turned to this with pride glowing in every 
feature of her face. 

“ This picture,” she began, with the 
manner of one who had often repeated 
the words, “ this picture is one my sister 
k over the mountain ’ sent me. It is a pic- 
ture of Venice — a city in Italy. My sis- 
ter knows all about it. She says they 
don’t have any roads there at all — nothin’ 
but water everywhere, and they go in 
boats from house to house and from place 
to place, as you see in the picture. It 
must be a curious place ! It’s considered 
by all odds the nicest picture in Sherburn; 
everybody comes to see it. It cost seven 
dollars, frame and all /” 

Her visitors listened with close atten- 
tion, and agreed with her that Venice 
was a curious place. When Annie told 
her she and her brother had been 


184 A New England Idyl . 

there, and gave her more definite infor- 
mation as to the beauties and peculiarities 
of the cit}’, Aunt Abel was delighted, and 
asked a great many questions. Presently, 
it occurred to her that it was getting on 
towards supper-time, and she and Rosy 
proceeded to the kitchen. 

The other two, expressing a desire to 
go out and look around a little, followed. 
They were glad to escape from the par- 
lor. “ Strange,” thought Annie, “ that 
people living in the midst of so much 
natural beauty should be so destitute of 
•all sense of beauty in the adornment of 
their homes ! It would seem as if the 
artistic sense must be instinctive here.” 
As they passed through the great kitchen, 
the brother and sister experienced a feel- 
ing of delicious relief and surprise. 
They smiled and exchanged glances of 


An Afternoon Visit . 185 

mutual appreciation. After that glimpse 
of the kitchen, nothing should induce 
them to sit down again in the parlor ! 
The room was long, and low, and wide. 
The floor was scrubbed daintily clean and 
white. The small-paned windows were 
fringed outside with scarlet runners, that 
hung in vivid clusters. The paint in the 
room — that is, the ceilings and doors — 
was a dull yellow. A huge fire-place 
was on one side of the room, and be- 
tween its shining andirons, on the floor, 
stood a monstrous bunch of the feathery 
asparagus. “ Sparrowgrass was good for 
drawin’ flies,” Aunt Abel explained. A 
wide, old-fashioned settee, with rockers, 
occupied the corner opposite, and a 
dresser with open shelves full of blue 
crockery and some odd pieces of silver, 
pewter, and britannia ware was a delight to 


1 86 A New England Idyl. 


the eyes. A tall old clock ticked solemnly 
in another corner, a round-faced moon 
revolving on top, to tell the story of its 
own phases, and a painted ship, the 
changes of the tides. 

The cooking stove was the only mod- 
ern, incongruous object in the room, and 
even it did not seriously mar the quaint, 
quiet aspect of the place. 

In that kitchen, and with that view 
from the windows, Turner himself need 
not have complained of his surround- 
ings. 

Opening from the kitchen was the 
“ shed-room” — not the wood-shed — that 
was farther on. In the centre of this 
room was a huge wooden trough, and 
into it a little stream of water trickled 
ceaselessly, with a cool, pleasant sound. 
Thus was the water supplied for family 


An Afternoon Visit . 187 

use the year round, and this great trough 
was the family water-pail. 

At one end, on the cool north side, the 
milk-room was partitioned off, where on 
the shelves the pans of milk were ranged 
in shining rows. The great cheeses, too, 
were kept here, and the preserves, and 
stores of maple-sugar and honey.* 

Uncle Abel opportunely puts in his 
appearance just as the supper is read}’. 
He gives Rosy a hearty welcome, takes 
the strangers’ hands in a strong grip, and 
says, “ I hope to see ye well,” which is 
considered the correct acknowledgment 
of an introduction in the “ Holler,” and, 
after a few words more of civility on both 
sides, they walk out to tea. 

* The furnishings and arrangements herein described 
are common to most New England farm-houses in ob- 
scure towns, and may be found in “ Sherburn Holler ” 
to-day. 


1 88 A New England Idyl . 

Aunt Abel again has recourse to apolo- 
gies. “ I’m awful sorry the best room is 
so small ! ” she said; “ I would ’a’ sot the 
table in there. I don’t s’pose city folks 
are used to eatin’ on bare floors ! ” 

Rosy laughed, and, looking at the spot- 
less floor, answered literally, “ I’m sure 
it’s nice and clean enough to eat on.” 

The city folks were glad the best room 
was small; if it had been smaller, there 
would still be enough of it, in their opin- 
ion, but they did not say so — they only 
politely expressed their pleasure at sup- 
ping in her pleasant kitchen. Then she 
was sorry the table was so small — and it 
was small, so small that kind Uncle Abel, 
in order to give everybody else plenty of 
room, transfixed himself on one of its 
sharp corners, with the point sticking into 
his stomach quite uncomfortably. He 


An Afternoon Visit . 189 

did make a ludicrous appearance, as he 
dexterously plied his knife and fork. 
Every article of food that he could cut, he 
cut, holding it down well with his fork, 
.and slashing it across with great pre- 
cision, carrying it to his mouth on his 
knife blade, and washing down the whole 
with numerous saucers of scalding tea. 

Everything on the table, from the light 
biscuit to the plum sauce and sponge 
cake, was perfect, but each in its turn 
was lamented over and apologized for by 
the hostess, and proportionally praised by 
the visitors. 

When Uncle Abel served the honey, 
he glanced roguishly at his wife and ob- 
served, “ If there’s anything the matter 
with this ere honey, Aunt Abel ain’t to 
blame. The bees made it.” 

The repast ended, Uncle Abel tilted 


190 A New England Idyl . 

back in his chair and wiped his mouth on 
the back of his hand. 

“ Wall, Mr. Arbuckle,” he said, jo- 
cosely, “ I hope you’ve made out a 
supper.” 

“ I have, indeed ! ” answered Guy, 
heartily. “ I never enjoyed a meal more 
in my life ! ” 

The old man looked from one to the 
other of his guests, and moved uneasily 
in his seat. 

“We’re rough in our ways up here — 
pretty rough, I s’pose, but we mean well. 
I used ter think,” he continued, wistfully, 
“ I used ter think sometimes, when I was 
a young man, that I’d like ter sell the 
farm and go away and git edication, and 
so on, but it wa’n’t to be — no, it wa’n’t 
to be; and I think’s like enough the Lord 
knew best.” 


An Afternoon Visit . 19 1 

The young man of the world looked at 
him thoughtfully. “ After all, the differ- 
ence between people here is only a 
matter of circumstance and opportunity, 
and in the hereafter the real advantage 
may be on this old man’s side.” 

He changed the conversation to more 
cheerful topics, by asking about his ex- 
perience in hunting bears. On this sub- 
ject Uncle Abel was eloquent. 

“ I have lived here on the mountain 
all my life,” he said, “ and man and boy 
I have ketched — that is, trapped, shot, 
and knocked in the head, forty-odd 
bears. Got the bounty on ’em, too,” he 
chuckled. “ The last one was a noble 
great feller — weighed four hundred 
pound ! They had it in all the papers, 
and my name along with it. You must 
’a’ seen the piece.” 


192 A New England Idyl . 

He brought out several fine skins and 
spread them on the floor, among them 
that of the mammoth four-hundred- 
pounder. It was indeed magnificent 
and worth a good deal of money, as 
Guy remarked. 

“Yes, they fetch a good price,” said 
Uncle Abel, “ and I orter dispose of ’em, 
’fore the moths eat ’em up, but,” with a 
furtive glance at his wife, •“ I hain’t had 
no heart ter ’cumulate property sence 
the children was took away.” 

“Tell me how you managed to catch 
this great fellow?” said Guy. “I don’t 
know much about bear-hunting.” 

“Why, you see, we sot the trap as 
usual, and when we went ter look alter 
it, the hull thing was gone. We followed 
the trail (there’d been a light snow the 
night afore) and arter trampin' a couple 


An Afternoon Visit . 193 

o’ mile we come upon him. He was 
jest ketched by one leg, and it didn’t 
seem ter hender him much. He was 
makin’ off about as fast as if he’d had 
four free legs to go on. When we come 
up with him, and he see us, he was antic, 
I tell ye ! We had quite a tussle with 
him, — or / did — for there was only 
two boys along with me. I knocked him 
in the head a number o’ times with my 
axe, and finally finished him. He was 
a tough one, though! He tore my coat 
all ter pieces, but I never got a scratch.” 

He invited Mr. Arbuckle to join him 
in a squirrel-hunt the next week, which 
he readily consented to do. As they 
had a long ride before them, they soon 
started for home, carrying away with 
them impressions that would be unique, 
as well as salutary and lasting. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A RICH LOVER. GLAMOUR. 

The lovely summer clays slipped by, 
and still Guy Arbuckle lingered at the 
Ruggles farm. 

It was true, the brooks furnished inex- 
haustible resources as to fishing ; small 
game abounded in the neighborhood, 
and he had even joined Uncle Abel in 
a bear-hunt, and actually caught sight 
of a live bear upon the mountains ; but 
somehow these sports began to pall upon 
him. Rosy Ruggles’ charming face and 
delightful piquant ways interested him 
infinitely more. He finally gave himself 
up without reserve to the enjoyment of 


194 


A Rick Lover . — Glamour . 195 

her society, and the new spell of good- 
ness, beauty, and innocence combined. 
He haunted the girl’s steps, studied her 
tastes, and read her pure soul — or 
thought he did — like an open book ; 
but there were sacred pages sealed and 
closed from his sight. 

He began to look back upon the dis- 
sipation and the hollowness of his past life 
with loathing, and to long, or imagine 
that he longed, for something better. 
He felt that his acquaintance with Rosy 
had opened up for him a new life, full of 
new possibilities. He finally concluded 
to open his heart to his sister. 

They were sitting together alone one 
day, beside the brook, under the shadow 
of a big birch-tree ; his fishing-rod lying 
idly beside him on the grass, the speckled 
trout sporting and frisking unheeded be- 


196 A New England Idyl . 

fore his very eyes. Was ever a fisherman 
so indifferent ? 

“ Annie,” he began abruptly, “ I believe 
I will marry Rosy Ruggles, and settle 
down for life.” 

She turned a swift, startled look upon 
him. “ Don’t joke about her , Guy,” she 
said, in a tone of disapproval. 

“ I am not joking. I tell you I mean 
to marry Rosy Ruggles,” he repeated, 
with an earnestness not to be mistaken. 

“It seems strange to you — sudden, no 
doubt — and ours has been a short ac- 
quaintance ; but, bless her innocent heart, 
it does not take long to know her ! She 
is as fresh and unconventional as a daisy ! 
She has plenty of spirit, though — in short, 
I believe she is just the sort of woman to 
make a man of me.” 

His sister looked at him, and her eyes 


A Rich Lover . — Glamour . 197 

filled with tears. “ Poor fellow ! ” she 
thought, “ he does need some one to make 
a man of him.” 

“ Guy,” she said, “ if you are really in 
earnest, I am glad, and bid you God- 
speed.” 

He drew a sigh of relief. “ I did not 
know but you might think it unsuitable; 
I hesitated myself, for some time. The 
family is so obscure and poor — ” 

She interrupted him with a gesture of 
protest. “ It is a noble family,” she said, 
“ in every way worthy. And either of the 
girls would adorn any station in life. But 
can you have Rosy for the asking ? Does 
she care for you ? ” 

Guy laughed securely. “ What do you 
think ? Do rich husbands grow on every 
bush here in Sherburn Holler?” 

“ But Rosy is so unworldly.” 

“ True, but she is ambitious.” 


198 A New England Idyl . 

One afternoon they were all out under 
the big apple-tree in front of the house. 
Guy lay at full length on the grass, lazily 
enjoying the shade, and watching Rosy, 
who was shelling a big panful of peas 
for dinner. She looked dainty and cOol 
in her fresh print dress, and nothing could 
surpass the exquisite beauty of her face, 
framed in the bright gold of her hair. So 
Guy Arbuckle thought, as he languidly 
regarded her through his half-closed eyes. 

By and by Hester is called into the 
house, and Miss Arbuckle follows, leaving 
Rosy alone with her brother. 

“ Rosy ! ” very softly. No answer. She 
is absorbed in her work, and the peas 
rattle into the pan. “Rosy!” a little 
sharply. 

She starts nervously. “ Oh ! what is it, 
Mr. x\rbuckle ? Has a bug crawled up 


A Rich Lover. — Glamour, 199 


your sleeve again — or a spider, perhaps ? 
I believe you hate them equally. Strange 
that you can bait a hook with a horrid 
squirming worm, when you are so afraid 
of bugs and spiders ! ” 

“ Rosy,” he repeated, utterly ignoring 
her remarks, “ do you remember what we 
talked about, the other night, coming 
home from the falls?” 

“If I remember rightly, bugs and spi- 
ders weren’t mentioned,” she said, de- 
murely. 

“ Bugs and spiders be hanged ! Who 
cares anything about bugs and spiders /” 
he exclaimed impatiently. 

“Now you ask me,” answered Rosy, 
“ I don’t suppose anybody realty cares for 
them ; but it seems foolish to hate them 
— poor creatures ! ” 

“ Rosy! do you know I believe you are 


200 A New England Idyl . 

a born coquette ! It must be natural to 
3’ou, since you have had small opportunity 
for acquiring the accomplishment, I should 
sa}\ I flatter myself I understand women 
pretty well, but in some respects you are 
a riddle to me.” 

Rosy laughed. “ Do you give it up ? ” 
she asked, saucily. 

“ No. Do }*ou remember what we 
talked about the other night ! Tell me !” 
he persisted. 

“ Let me see,” said Ros} r , casting up 
her eyes meditatively. “ It must have 
been something very nice, since you are 
so particular to recall it. 

“ Oh ! didn’t you say my hat was very 
becoming — the one trimmed with laven- 
der ribbon and violets, you know. It is 
pretty. I trimmed it myself.” 

“Well,” laughing, but vexed, “you 


A Rich Lovtr. — Glamour. 201 

are progressing a little. What else did 
I say ? ” 

“ You said,” turning upon him suddenly 
a changed, serious face, “you said that 
Sherburn Holler had done you good — 
that these dear old hills had been mis- 
sionaries to your soul, and that you meant 
to be a better man hereafter.” 

“Yes! and that you had been a good 
angel to me — as you will always be !” 
he added impetuously, rising and coming 
over to her side. 

“ I am glad if your stay with us has 
proved a benefit,” she said, simply. “You 
certainly do seem much better in health, 
and good health is next to religion, you 
know,” smiling. 

“And love is better than all ! Is it 
possible you do not know how I love 
you ? What is the use of dissembling !” 


202 A New England Idyl. 

“ Dissembling ! ” echoed Rosy, start- 
ing up in a great hurry, and spilling her 
peas. 

He gave the pan a vicious kick, and 
frowned down upon her, as she knelt 
to pick them up. 

“Mr. Arbuckle,” she suggested, 
“ wouldn’t it be a good plan to begin 
now to be good, by trying to control that 
temper of yours ? ” 

He bit his lip and laughed nervously. 
“I know I am making a fool of myself, 
but you are so provoking.” 

Rosy took her pan and started for the 
house. 

“ Don’t go ! ” he cried, almost angrily. 
“ See here, Rosy, aren’t you carrying 
rather a high hand with me — under the 
circumstances ? ” 

“ 4 High hand l Circumstances /’ I 


A Rich Lover . — Glamour. 203 

don’t understand,” said Rosy, turning 
short about and facing him. 

“ Why, you know I love you,” he 
began, “ and one would think — that is 
— generally — ” he floundered hopelessly. 

“ 'Generally' poor little country girls 
are only too glad to win the regard of rich 
and handsome city gentlemen ! ” finished 
Rosy, her beautiful eyes flashing scorn- 
fully. 

“ Just so,” said he, coolly. “ And if I 
did not know you to be as good and 
honest as you are charming, I should 
almost suspect you of acting a part. 
Rosy! you know I love you — I want 
you to be my wife.” 

“ Your wife! ” She repeated the words 
slowl}’, as if trying to comprehend their 
meaning. 

“Yes, my wife,” said Guy, proudly. 


204 ^ New England Idyl . 

“ Do you know all that means? It 
means wealth, and a life of luxury and 
ease. It means silks and satins and 
jewels — to match your beauty, dear — 
and love and worship, besides ! ” 

His face was all aglow. He trembled, 
and the hand that clasped hers was so 
cold that she thought he must be ill. 
“ Do not excite yourself so, Mr. Ar- 
buckle,” she said kindly, but drawing 
away from him. 

Then into her mind like a flash came 
the remembrance of all her longings for 
wealth and position. Here they were, 
laid at her feet ! Her heart gave one 
great throb of triumph. For one moment 
she forgot love — Will Hanson — every- 
thing. 

He took her silence for consent. 
“ Tell me,” he said, “ is this my little 


A Rick Lover . — Glamour . 205 

wife ? ” He drew her to him, and would 
have kissed her. 

His touch awoke her from her dream. 
She freed herself instantly from his em- 
brace. 

“Oh, you must not kiss me — you 
must not ! ” she cried. 

“Well, what must I do?” he asked, 
enchanted with what he considered her 
divine simplicity. 

“ Wait, and let me think ! ” she said, 
and ran past him into the house. 

Aunt Nancy did not like Guy Ar- 
buckle, and she had looked upon his 
growing interest in Rosy with strong dis- 
approval. 

“ I don’t care,” she said to Hester, “ I 
don’t care if he has got all the wealth of 
the ‘ Injins ’ (Indies) — I’d ruther have 
Will Hanson than forty like him ! He 


20 6 A New England Idyl . 

ain’t genniwin. His likin’ for Rosy ain’t 
nothin’ but a notion, and he’ll forgit all 
about her when he goes back to the city ! 
You mark my words, now ! ” 

Hester looked a little troubled. “ I 
hope no harm will come of it,” she said. 
“ I see nothing in Rosy’s behavior to find 
fault with, so far; and as for Mr. Ar- 
buckle, he is a man of the world, and a 
gentleman, and will probably do nothing 
foolish or hasty.” 

“ I ain’t so sure he’s a gentleman,” said 
Aunt Nancy. “ I know he’s a man o’ the 
world; and that’s why I don’t like him, 
nor trust him, nuther. I believe he 
means ter make love ter Rosy, and then 
go off and leave her, like a raskil ! ” 

Hester smiled. “ I don’t think Rosy 
would break her heart over him, in any 
case. She don’t seem to care for him.” 


A Rich Lover . — Glamour . 207 

“ Perhaps she don’t ; but }’ou know 
how she’s alwers wanted ter be rich, and 
I’m afeared her pesky pride and ambi- 
tion ’ll play the mischief with her.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE END. 

Mr. Arbuckle would not have felt 
flattered, if he could have known how the 
news was received, when Rosy told the 
family that he had asked her to marry 
him. 

Aunt Nancy did not hesitate to express 
her dissatisfaction in the strongest terms; 
and when she appealed to her sister, 
Plester took her in her arms, and kissed 
her with the tears in her eyes. 

“ Look into your own heart, dear, and 
decide for yourself, ” she said, tremu- 
lously. “ And oh, my darling, be true to 
yourself ! ” 


208 


The End . 


209 

Rosy began to realize that it might not 
be such a fine thing, after all, to marry a 
rich man; even the silks and jewels ap- 
peared less and less desirable. 

Meanwhile, Guy Arbuckle had no mis- 
givings as to the final result of his woo- 
ing. He already regarded Rosy with a 
feeling of possession, and waited patiently 
upon her moods, as he could not have 
done had he understood the real state of 
the case. He noticed that she seemed 
disturbed, and not altogether happy, but 
he considered this only natural; as an 
offer of marriage from one like him to a 
girl in her position must, indeed, be a 
matter of great and serious importance. 

A few days later, thinking that he had 
given her sufficient time for reflection, he 
again recurred to the subject. 

“Well, Rosy,” said he, lightly, smiling 


210 A New England Idyl . 

down into her eyes, “ have I waited long 
enough for my answer?” 

“Yes; and I have thought it over a 
great deal,” she answered with an effort. 
“Do you know, Mr. Arbuckle, you did 
not ask me if I loved you — I noticed 
that.” 

“ But you do love me ? ” 

“No — oh, no! I don’t — I can’t; for 
I love somebody else with my whole 
soul ! ” she cried, clasping her hands 
tightly together. 

“Ah? And how long have you loved 
— this fortunate ‘somebody ’ P ” he asked, 
with a sneer. 

“ Oh, always ! That is, a good many 
years. But, you see, I did not tell you at 
first, as I ought, because I knew }*ou were 
rich, and I thought, if I married you, I 
could do so much for the family! And 


The E?id. 


21 1 


then, I do love beautiful things — I should 
like those ! ” regretfully. 

“ Faust and Marguerite,” muttered Guy, 
under his breath. 

“ I am sorry I did not speak out frankly 
before,” she said, timidly, “ and I do hope 
you will not be much disappointed.” 

He could not help smiling at her sim- 
plicity. 

“ I don’t think I should have made you 
a suitable wife — I don’t, indeed,” she 
continued. “You would soon have tired 
of me, and I — oh, I should have been 
unhappy, miserable ! ” 

He did not speak, and she went on 
hurriedly. “ I do thank you, and I feel 
honored — oh, greatly honored, and I 
cannot tell you how it pains me to — 
to — ” 

“ Refuse me,” he suggested, his glitter- 


212 A New England Idfl . 

ing eyes fixed upon her in a cold, sarcas- 
tic gaze. 

“Yes,” she assented simply, without 
looking up. “ But I know you will soon 
forget me, and find some one much more 
suitable. Do you not think so?” lifting 
her hot face beseechingly to his. 

She met a glance so cruel and angry 
that she felt almost frightened. The tears 
came into her lovely eyes. “ Why should 
you be so displeased with me,” she 
pleaded. “ I did not mean to do wrong 
— believe me.” 

Her beauty and her innocent grief 
touched his heart. 

“ No, no, child ! ” he said, his face 
clearing; “you have done no wrong, ex- 
cept in making a serious matter of some 
little romance between yourself arid some 
country bumpkin hereabouts. Dry your 


The E?id. 


213 


tears, sweetheart, and give me a kiss. 
What a tender conscience we have, to be 
sure ! ” 

But she only looked at him seriously, 
and shook her golden head. 

“ Oh, I am in earnest ; I do not love 
you.” 

“ Whom do you love?” he asked impe- 
riously. 

“You have no right to ask me — so; 
but I am proud to tell you. I love Will 
Hanson ! ” She threw back her head and 
drew herself up with childish dignity. 
Guy Arbuckle burst into a loud laugh. 

“Why do you laugh?” she asked, a 
dangerous flash in her eye. 

“ Laugh ? At the idea of it ! So he is 
my rival /” and he laughed again. 

u He is your rival,” she repeated, her 
temper rising. 


214 A New England Idyl. 

“ You are not the girl I took 3*011 for,” 
he said at length, “ if you go and throw 
}*ourself away upon a country boor! I 
thought } r ou had some ambition — some 
taste!” with an expression of disgust in 
his face, that caused her to lose what lit- 
tle self-possession remained to her. 

“ And you are not the ge?itleman I took 
you for!” she exclaimed. 

“ Will Hanson is vastly — infinitely 
)*our superior, if you only knew it ! Yes, 
even in appearance — in his shirt-sleeves 
and old blue overalls, he is the handsom- 
est fellow in the world ! And he is truly 
good and polite — a gentleman in every 
sense of the word. Wh} r , you are not 
even outwardly civil ! See how you 
treat me ! A gentleman may forget his 
manners , but he never forgets to be 
manly ! ” 


The End . 


215 


“Well, are you quite finished ? ” he 
asked. “You have a sharp tongue, have 
you not ? ” 

“ It may be,” she said. “ A woman’s 
tongue is her weapon of defence, you 
know. But I seldom find occasion to use 
mine as I have to-day.” She rose, as she 
spoke, to leave the room, but at the door 
turned. 

“ Sir,” she said, with an effort, “ I ask 
you to forgive me if I have wounded your 
feelings, — and I wish you well.” Then 
she went out and left him alone. 

That afternoon, as Jerry was out in the 
yard at play, Will Hanson came along on 
his way to the village, and stopped, as he 
often did, to have a little chat and frolic 
with him. 

“ Oh, Will ! ” cried Jerry, running up 
to him excitedly, “ Rosy is going to 


216 A New England Idyl . 

marry Mr. Arbuckle, and she is going to 
the city to live in a splendid house with 
fourteen marble steps up to it, — and 
black servants to wait on her, and dia- 
monds and carriages, and — and every- 
thing ! ” growing incoherent. “ Oh, and 
he’s going to send John to college, and 
give me a carriage and two live goats to 
draw it ! He said so ! ” 

“What do you mean ?” exclaimed Will, 
clutching hold of Jerry, and giving him 
a little shake. “ Is Rosy going to marry 
Mr. Arbuckle ? Is that what you 
said ?” 

“Yes, it is! — You let me be!” 
whimpered Jerry, frightened by Will’s 
strange looks. “ But,” he continued, 
willing to propitiate him, “ Aunt Nancy 
don’t like it a bit, and she said she should 
consider it her dooty to tell you so — 


The E?id . 


217 

though I don't see what difference that 'll 
make,” he added, philosophically. 

“ When did this happen ? How long 
have you known it ? ” 

“ Oh, a few days ago — last week, I 
guess. I’ve heard a lot of talk about 
it.” 

Will turned slowly about, and walked 
away. He had been in a state of nervous 
apprehension ever since Mr. Arbuckle 
came, fearing just what had come to pass, 
and he did not for one moment doubt the 
truth of Jerry’s story. He had been at 
the house considerably of late; had 
hunted aud fished with Mr. Arbuckle and 
John, often stopping to tea, or pic- 
nicking with the family under the orchard 
trees. Consequently, he had seen them 
together a good deal; but he thought — 
indeed, he had felt quite sure — that, how- 


218 A New England Idyl . 

ever much Mr. Arbuckle might admire 
Rosy, she was indifferent to him. 

Still, he feared — knowing her ambi- 
tion to be rich, and remembering her 
flushed and eager look that afternoon at 
the falls, when she spoke of what wealth 
would bring. 

He groaned aloud as he went stagger- 
ing along, he knew not, cared not 
whither, till the loud roaring of the falls 
near by recalled him to his senses. 
Obeying a sudden vague impulse, he 
climbed the fence, and took the direction 
of the old birch-tree — her tree. He 
went stumbling on, his eyes fixed upon 
the ground, his hands clasped behind him, 
knowing nothing, seeing nothing, — when 
suddenly his ear caught the sound of a 
sob. He looked up, and there before 
him, under the big birch-tree, lay Rosy 


The End . 


219 

Ruggles, crying as if her heart would 
break ! 

He had never seen her so, and he loved 
her. Forgetting everything, he sprang to 
her side and lifted her in his arms. 

“ Rosy, darling, what is it ? tell me ! ” 
he said, brushing back the tangled gold 
of her hair from her lovely face, all hot 
and wet with tears. 

She started, frightened, at first, then, 
with one glance into his face, she clung to 
him nervously, as if for protection from 
some lurking foe. 

As her sobs subsided, the remembrance 
of his own distress and misery came back 
to his mind. 

“ Rosy, do promised brides generally 
have occasion for such tears as these ?” 
he asked, bitterly. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” answered 


220 A New England Idyl. 

Rosy, hysterically, drawing away from 
him. “I never was a ‘ promised bride,’ 
so I can’t tell ! ” 

“Rosy!” sternly, “Jerry told me all 
about it ! ” 

“ Well, if he told you all about it,” she 
cried miserabty, “ what is the use of your 
coming here and asking questions — and 
plaguing me, when I am all tired out and 
just as unhappy as I can be ! ” 

“ Only tell me one thing : Are }^ou go- 
ing to marry Mr. Arbuckle? Is it true? ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! Tou ought to know I 
could not ! ” 

He put out his arms and took her to his 
heart. “ Rosy, is it because yo?i love me y 
that you could not — that you will not 
marry Mr. Arbuckle ?” 

She lifted her wet e}’es to his, but an- 
swered not a word. Then he took cour- 


The End . 


221 


age, and, bending over, kissed her lips for 
the first time. 

Thus love triumphed over ambition, and 
in the autumn, when the golden-rod and 
asters were in blossom, there was a double 
wedding at the Ruggles homestead. 

Doctor Richard Bemis took his bride 
away over the mountain, to live in the 
great city, and John and Jerry went v/ith 
them. 

John is in the doctor’s office, and hopes 
one day to write M. D. after his own 
name. 

Jerry is at school, and bids fair to be- 
come an honor to the family. 

Aunt Nancy lives with Rosy and Will, 
and never lacks for a clean white apron, 
nor a doctor to her “ rheumatiz.” 

They have remodelled the old house, 


222 A New England Idyl, 

and beautified the place, till it is scarcely 
recognizable. But the dear old hills re- 
main the same, and “ Sherburn Holler’ 
still sleeps on in tranquil beauty. 













































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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